PHILOSOPHY 


AN   AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 


PHILOSOPHY 

AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 
FRAGMENT 


BY 

HENRIE  WASTE 


LONGMANS,    GREEN    AND     CO. 

FOURTH  AVENUE  tf  3<DTH  STREET,  NEW  YORK 

39     PATERNOSTER     ROW,      LONDON 

BOMBAY,  CALCUTTA,  AND   MADRAS 

1917 


COPYRIGHT, 
BY    LONGMANS,   GREEN  AND    CO. 


THE  •  PLIMPTON   •  PRESS 
NORWOOD   •  MASS   •    U  •  S  •  A 


To 

R.  W.  S. 


355539 


PHILOSOPHY 


IT  seemed  strange  and  wonderful  to  be 
seated  in  the  ancient  cloister-court  of  the 
Albert-Ludwig  University  with  Herr  Broder- 
son  on  a  warm  spring  afternoon.  Herr  Broder- 
son  was  speaking  to  me  of  the  individual 
note  in  our  teacher's,  Professor  Rickert's,  phi- 
losophy; of  the  difference  between  his  and 
other  doctrines  of  idealism,  and  especially  of 
that  one  of  its  aspects  which  constituted  a 
complete  refutation  of  fashionable  "psycholo- 
gism."  This  was  what  I  had  come  to  Freiburg 
to  learn,  and  yet,  and  although  Herr  Broderson's 
voice  beat  insistently  on  my  ear,  my  attention 
continually  escaped,  and  jumped  from  the  splash 
of  the  sparkling  fountain  to  the  chirruping  of 
the  birds  in  the  leafage  of  the  trees,  to  the  hum 
of  the  voices  wafted  from  the  open  windows  of 
the  lecture-room,  to  the  passing  of  the  students 
from  the  sunny  court  into  the  darkness  of  the 
portals  of  the  house,  and  back  again  to  Herr 
Broderson's  absorbed  countenance.  And,  be- 
tween these  sense-impressions  wrapped  in  a 
haze  of  charm,  irrelevant  pictures  of  the  scenes 


PHILOSOPHY 


left  behind  in  New  York  irrupted  jerkily, 
Columbia  University  Library,  Riverside  Drive, 
Central  Park  West,  —  all  these  hard  in  outline 
and  bare  of  enveloping  emotion. 

So  strange  indeed  did  it  seem  to  me,  as  I 
looked  at  Herr  Broderson's  forbidding  counte- 
nance, and  into  his  eyes  whose  gaze  turned 
inward,  as  if  to  watch  and  control  the  gener- 
ation of  his  ideas,  that  I  suffered  intensely  from 
a  desire  rudely  to  interrupt  the  workings  of  his 
perfectly  adjusted  mind,  to  take  his  hands  into 
mine  and  to  call  to  him:  "Herr  Broderson,  stop! 
Look  at  .me,  think  for  a  moment  of  this:  how 
is  it  possible  that  I  should  listen  to  you  and 
follow  the  intricacies  of  your  thought,  when  I 
am  pressed  upon  by  a  thousand  mysterious  and 
charming  things  that  are  as  fantastic  as  a 
dream,  so  little  do  I  understand  them  and 
my  place  in  their  midst.  Tell  me  rather,  Herr 
Broderson,  why  the  sparse  grass,  the  song  of 
your  birds,  the  sun  and  shadow,  the  brick  and 
mortar  of  this  convent  college,  the  silhouettes 
of  hurrying  students,  and  why  your  own  im- 
penetrable and  unseeing  eyes  thrill  and  excite 
me,  and  fill  me  with  a  painful  desire  to  under- 
stand, and  feel,  and  feel  at  home  among  you. 
What  can  it  avail  me  to  conquer  these  last 

C43 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

refinements  of  dialectics,  when,  alas,  whole 
scenes  from  reality  masquerade  as  dreams? 
You,  Herr  Broderson,  who  are  a  part  of  this 
world,  make  it  real  for  me  as  well,  prepare  it 
for  me  so  that  my  excited  spirit  may  be  able 
to  assimilate  it  and  grow  and  expand.  Assuage 
the  pain  of  my  desire  to  embrace  this  new  expe- 
rience; my  senses  are  alive,  but  my  spirit  does 
not  respond." 

Herr  Broderson's  voice  cut  more  and  more 
incisely  into  the  atmosphere,  his  sentences  were 
neat  and  complete,  and  by  the  time  he  touched 
upon  the  heart  of  the  doctrine,  my  attention 
had  with  a  great  effort  returned  to  his  discourse; 
the  sun  was  extinguished,  all  sounds  of  nature 
were  silenced,  the  Gothic  cloisters  and  New 
York  were  correlative  geographical  points,  and 
Broderson  the  "mediator"  between  the  new 
doctrine  and  myself.  My  walk  homeward  in 
the  golden  air  of  the  setting  sun  was  a  progres- 
sion through  the  many  objections  that  presented 
themselves  to  my  mind,  one  after  the  other, 
in  reference  to  the  doctrine  with  which  I  had 
just  become  acquainted. 


PHILOSOPHY 


A 


JT  twilight  I  sat  on  my  white  balustraded 
balcony  that  overhung  the  lilac  bushes  of  the 
garden  below  and  gave  on  a  broad  avenue  of 
chestnuts.  From  it  the  eye  looked  out  upon 
the  distant  hills  of  the  Black  Forest,  passing 
on  its  way  over  many  shingled  roofs  and  pur- 
pling tree  tops  and  around  the  lonely  point 
of  the  cathedral  spire  dim  in  the  dying  light. 

But  to-night  I  noticed  none  of  these  things, 
for  my  thoughts  were  struggling  to  master  the 
conflicting  states  within  me  and  to  pierce  the 
obscurity  of  their  relation.  I  had  come  to 
Freiburg,  —  this  much  seemed  certain,  —  with 
the  sole  purpose  of  learning  the  ultimate  and 
most  profound  truths  of  life.  After  an  appren- 
ticeship in  training  and  sharpening  the  mind, 
I  wanted  and  I  meant  to  really  use  it;  no 
longer  to  play  with  thoughts,  but  to  reach  out 
and  grasp  things:  to  know.  And  to  know  not 
merely  for  the  pleasure  of  knowing,  but  for 
the  richness  and  the  completeness  of  living, 
I  thought.  For  it  seemed  to  me  that  to  come 
to  a  decision  in  the  full  consciousness  of  free- 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

dom,  of  power  and  of  right,  to  have  every  aft 
call  up  upon  demand  an  illumined  outline  of 
ultimate  purpose,  to  know  what  one  might 
desire  and  why,  and  thus  to  be  master  of  one- 
self to  the  extent  of  living  without  hesitations 
and  doubts,  —  this  seemed  to  me  an  objective 
so  dazzling  and  so  full  of  the  promise  of  ex- 
panding life,  that  beside  it  all  other  forms  of 
living  were  grey,  blind,  and  half  dead. 

But  to  achieve  such  life,  to  truly  create  one's 
destiny,  one  must  know  what  truth,  goodness 
and  beauty  are  and  their  interrelation,  and  to 
understand  these  values  one  must  know  the 
nature  of  the  mind  of  man,  and  since  the  mind 
can  be  comprehended  in  relation  to  reality 
only,  one  must  know  what  reality  itself  is. 
Yes,  it  seemed  to  me  that  one  must  hold  this 
knowledge  and  that  nothing  less  could  be 
accepted  as  life. 

And  I,  Henrie  Waste,  was  travelling  the  road 
toward  this  wonderful  goal  and  the  journey 
was  indeed  a  delicious  entrancement.  —  I  leaned 
my  arms  on  the  cool  balustrade  and  my  head 
upon  them,  and  closing  my  eyes  I  concentrated 
my  thoughts  upon  my  journey.  Most  of  all  — 
it  occurred  to  me  —  it  resembled  an  excursion 
into  the  bowels  of  the  earth  in  quest  of  hidden 


PHILOSOPHY 


treasure.  And  immediately  I  saw  the  world 
with  its  heat  and  languor,  its  discordant  sounds 
and  blinding  sights,  recede  and  disappear,  as 
I  entered  a  dark  cave  and  was  met  by  silence, 
coolness  and  concentration.  And  slowly  grop- 
ing through  the  dark  I  deliciously  felt  strength 
flowing  into  my  enervated  body,  and  with  it 
consciousness  of  my  own  movements  flowing 
in.  And  descending  ever  farther  into  the  dark 
profundities,  and  walking  winding  ways  that 
seemed  always  to  promise  an  approach  to  the 
goal,  —  at  last  I  perceived  a  faint  effulgence 
radiating  through  the  darkness,  and  immediately 
and  wonderfully  my  body  felt  and  knew  itself 
to  be  the  source  of  this  light,  and  a  marvellous 
and  almost  deifying  sense  of  creative  insight 
possessed  it  and  exhilarated  it. 

Yes,  approximately  thus  did  the  mind's  pur- 
suit of  truth  feel,  I  told  myself,  as  I  opened  my 
eyes  and  inhaled  the  fragrance  that  wafted 
from  the  lilacs  below. 

But  what  then  of  the  sounds  and  sights  of 
the  world  left  behind?  What  of  the  dancing 
sunlight  of  the  cloister  yards,  the  song  of  the 
birds,  the  sparkle  of  the  fountain,  Herr  Broder- 
son's  inturned  gaze,  and  the  fragrance  of  these 
lilacs  beneath  the  balcony?  For  these  things 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

too  forced  themselves  upon  the  inhospitable 
mind,  and  they  too,  alas,  were  a  delicious  en- 
chantment. .  .  .  What  else  could  these  things 
be,  I  instructed  myself,  but  the  chaotic,  the 
unselected  raw  material  for  reflection;  the  dis- 
connected facts  of  experience,  that  made  over 
by  the  mind,  came  ultimately  to  constitute 
the  vague  subject  of  the  proposition:  "the 
world  is  thus  and  thus,"  a  subject  manifestly 
far  less  interesting  than  its  rightful  predicate. 
And  yet,  I  further  asked  myself,  if  this  be 
the  case,  why  and  whence  the  charm,  the 
delight,  the  feeling  of  enrichment  and  expansion 
in  experiencing  these  factual  things?  Whence 
the  stimulation,  the  excitement  and  the  fatigue 
that  flows  from  them  ?  Whence  and  why  ?  — 
I  found  no  answer,  because  I  did  not  know;  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  in  the  fact  that  I  did 
not  know,  and  that  there  was  no  other  way  of 
finding  out  than  to  think  methodically  about 
the  matter,  lay  the  supremacy  of  systematic 
thought,  of  philosophy.  And  I  concluded 
with  finality  that  before  judging  the  seduc- 
tive sights  and  sounds  of  the  earth's  surface, 
the  profundities  of  thought  must  have  yielded 
valid  standards  of  criticism,  and  that  although 
these  objects  of  the  outer  constitution  of  the 


PHILOSOPHT 


world  received  by  the  senses  must  indeed  be 
analyzed  and  classified,  the  energy  consumed 
in  what  was  felt  as  their  appeal  must,  on  the 
contrary,  be  withdrawn  from  such  use  in  order 
to  be  transferred  to  the  intellectual  struggle. 

How  this  was  to  be  done  I  could  not  clearly 
see  nor  foresee,  and  detached  thoughts  that 
shot  up,  flickered  and  before  illumining  went 
out  like  a  dying  flame  tormented  me:  what 
function  such  emotions  floating  free  of  the 
intellect  could  have;  —  how,  if  one  dwell  on 
the  possibility  of  a  surprise  the  surprise  upon 
arriving  would  no  longer  be  a  surprise,  where- 
fore beware  of  despoiling  the  emotion  of  its 
flavour  by  heavily  pondering  on  it;  —  yet,  why 
this  instinctive  shying  away  from  the  whole 
problem  when  no  more  desirable  achievement 
could  be  conceived  than  to  convert  blind  feel- 
ing into  seeing  thought.  .  .  . 

"Feel  as  little  as  possible,  and  think  as 
much  as  possible,"  I  concluded  and  mechani- 
cally repeated  to  myself  again  and  again  in  a 
chanting  measure  while  I  watched  the  twilight 
grow  fainter,  the  air  thicken  and  darken,  the 
lilacs  veil  themselves,  and  from  the  pond  be- 
yond the  frogs  announce  the  night.  A  solitary 
man  passed  up  the  street,  and  his  slow  and 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

hesitating  steps  seemed  to  sound  the  ebbing 
of  light,  strength  and  life.  I  felt  stupid;  a 
little  unhappy,  and  very  happy.  Life  was 
fearfully  and  wonderfully  complex;  the  night 
was  full  of  shadows,  and  heavy  with  feeling  and 
with  silence.  —  Yet,  a  few  hours  hence  the  day 
would  dispel  the  night  with  light;  and  the 
mind  of  man  lived  and  took  joy  in  resolving 
life's  complexities. 


PHILOSOPHY 


IVlORE  meetings  with  the  kind  Herr  Broder- 
son  followed,  and  my  knowledge  of  the  un- 
published doctrine  of  our  master  grew,  but  the 
mystery  and  the  charm  of  the  new  phases  of  the 
life  about  me  remained  the  same  and  defied  me. 
For  Herr  Broderson  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  my 
unspoken  prayer  for  enlightenment,  and  while 
he  shared  with  me  his  remarkably  minute 
knowledge  of  the  history  of  philosophy,  he 
kept  to  himself  the  thoughts  and  feelings  with 
which  he  responded  to  the  environment  he  had 
emerged  from.  And  I  had  to  resign  myself  to 
finding  the  intuitional  mode  of  approach  through 
the  informed  spirit  of  another  closed  to  my 
clamouring  mind. 

After  a  time  another  method  suggested  itself, 
and  I  welcomed  it  with  some  self-congratu- 
lation, for  it  appeared  to  me  in  the  light  of  a 
personal  discovery.  Throughout  life  I  had 
observed  (I  now  recalled),  and  always  with 
great  astonishment,  that  in  personal  inter- 
course as  well  as  in  social  and  educational 
affairs,  the  prevailing  attitude  introduced, 

EM  3 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

encouraged  and  assumed  when  possible  was 
that  of  simply  taking  for  granted  whatever 
happened  to  present  itself. 

I  had  always  indeed  regarded  this  manner 
of  receiving  the  world,  negating,  as  it  does,  the 
philosophic  spirit  which  feeds  on  wonder,  as 
the  typically  stupid  manner,  and  had  looked 
upon  the  multitudes  who  find  nothing  at  which 
to  marvel  with  unsympathetic  pity;  —  but 
now,  suddenly,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  might 
nevertheless  be  mistaken,  and  that  this  stu- 
pidity might  have  a  very  intelligible  reason  for 
being,  not  indeed  as  a  final  attitude,  but  cer- 
tainly as  a  methodological  pose.  For  it  occurred 
to  me  that  as  some  shy  animals  only  venture 
forth  when  thinking  themselves  unobserved, 
and  as  some  sensitive  beings  can  endure  the 
presence  of  others  only  while  believing  them- 
selves ignored,  so  perhaps  the  works  and  ar- 
rangements of  man,  too,  might  flash  out  their 
meaning  if  not  too  eagerly  inspected.  And 
indeed,  and  after  all,  does  not  the  atmosphere 
of  emotion,  I  wondered,  —  of  admiration,  of 
interest  and  enjoyment  —  accompanying  the 
philosophical  attitude,  obscure  the  light  of 
reason  necessary  to  scientific  inquiry.  .  .  . 
Does  not  science,  as  well  as  stupidity,  take  for 


PHILOSOPHY 


granted  that  all  that  is  has  excellent  reasons 
for  being.  .  .  .  Does  science  not  confine  itself 
to  discovering  what  is  and  how  it  is  conditioned, 
and  leave  to  philosophy  the  "why's"  and 
"wherefore's".  .  .  .  Indeed  is  it  even  con- 
ceivable that  one  fall  into  rapt  admiration 
before  a  manifestation  of  nature  and  at  the 
same  time  discover  its  laws  ? 

With  such  reflections  I  sought  to  convince 
myself  that  by  concealing  the  feelings  which 
the  beauty  and  the  strangeness  of  my  sur- 
roundings excited  in  me,  and  by  treating  these 
as  emotionally  indifferent,  I  should  succeed  in 
secretly  coaxing  from  them  their  hidden  mean- 
ing, and  I  thought  to  foresee  that  thus  in  the 
end  I  should  vanquish  their  power  over  me  by 
finding  myself  in  unison  with  them.  And 
accordingly  I  undertook  a  sentimentally  steri- 
lized, purely  intellectual  survey  of  the  things 
about  me  by  simply  plunging  into  their  midst 
as  if  in  truth  they  formed  the  element  in  which 
it  was  natural  for  me  to  breathe;  and  I  deter- 
mined to  observe  freely,  without  scruple,  and 
unobstructed  by  prejudice.  .  .  . 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 


K. 


.OMMILITONEN"  and  teacher  were  the 
objects  upon  which  I  first  turned  my  emanci- 
pated eyes. 

My  fellow  students,  of  whom  there  were 
more  than  one  hundred,  presented  themselves 
to  me  as  a  mixed  assemblage  of  men,  whose 
common  trait  as  students  was  a  genuinely 
serious  interest  in  the  subject  of  philosophy  and 
in  its  local  exponent,  Professor  Rickert.  And 
as  young  men  "an  sich,"  on  the  other  hand, 
they  seemed  to  be  characterized  by  a  peculiar 
formalism  attendant  on  all  their  actions,  so 
that  even  trivial  affairs,  such  as  personal  con- 
cussions of  insignificant  proportions  and  in- 
evitable in  the  process  of  getting  to  one's  place 
along  the  narrow  line  of  ancient  benches,  be- 
came for  them  occasions  for  military  salutes 
and  elaborately  framed  and  distinctly  enunci- 
ated apologies.  Toward  students  of  my  sex 
(of  whom  there  were  very  few)  these  youths 
never  failed  in  the  superficial  courtesies;  doors 
were  held  open  with  the  same  profound  bow, 
and  any  small  matter  that  could  be  adjusted 


PHILOSOPHT 


without  speech  between  two  or  more  of  us  was 
attended  to  by  them  with  that  rigidity  of  ex- 
pression and  gesture  associated  with  complete 
and  habitual  self-control.  In  short,  in  general 
demeanour  they  exhibited  a  perfect  adaptation 
to  some,  as  it  were,  preformed  and  unchanging 
series  of  important  circumstances.  And  yet  in 
unguarded  and  so  to  say  private  moments, 
their  sharp  and  penetrating  eyes  seemed  clearly 
to  confide:  "This  is  myself;  the  mask  which  I 
wear,  and  which  is  dictated  by  common  sense 
and  by  tradition,  may  be  donned  and  doffed 
at  will;  seek  me  as  an  individual  and  you  will 
find  me." 

Upon  the  appearance  in  class  of  the  Master, 
as  I  usually  called  Professor  Rickert  romanti- 
cally to  myself,  the  assemblage  acclaimed  him 
by  stamping  and  rubbing  the  sanded  floor  with 
the  soles  of  their  shoes.  This  performance, 
after  it  lost  the  extrinsic  charm  of  novelty, 
grated  unpleasantly  on  the  ear  and  irritated 
the  eye  as  well,  carrying  with  it,  as  it  did  by 
association,  the  notion  of  a  symbolic  protest, 
in  that  the  bad  manners  of  beginning  a  promised 
performance  late  might  best  be  brought  to  the 
notice  of  the  responsible  persons  by  the  bad 
manners  of  a  kicking  and  shuffling  audience. 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

Nevertheless,    somehow,    it    had    in    the    Uni- 
versity become  the  classical  form  of  greeting. 

The  Master  who  entered  thus  welcomed, 
entered,  it  seemed  to  me,  like  a  sea-breeze  on 
a  hot  summer's  day.  He  was  a  tall  and  angular 
man,  and  his  great  shock  of  fairish  hair  arranged 
itself  in  such  fashion  that  it  afforded  him  the 
opportunity  of  constantly  tossing  his  "genialer 
Kopf,"  and  of  brushing  back  the  refractory 
strands  with  his  nervous  hand.  His  walk  was 
peculiarly  rapid  and  springy,  and  this,  combined 
with  an  upright  carriage,  a  facial  expression  of 
intense  if  vague  determination,  distended  nos- 
trils and  compressed  lips,  made  of  him,  to  my 
sense,  as  he  rushed  to  his  platform,  an  enter- 
taining incarnation  of  his  own  doctrine  of  the 
supremacy  of  the  will.  And  this  impression 
was  heightened  when  in  intellectual  action  his 
head  tossed,  and  his  grey  eyes  flashed,  and  his 
incisive  voice  rang  out  its  eloquent  appeal  to 
our  minds  to  receive  and  absorb  unlimited 
philosophical  information  beginning  with  Thales 
and  ending  with  Nietzsche.  Only  after  reflec- 
tion and  upon  consultation  of  one's  note-book 
did  this  flood  of  eloquence  resolve  itself  into 
the  most  systematic  of  analyses  of  the  subject 
under  discussion.  Then  indeed  the  firsts, 


PHILOSOPHY 


seconds  to  x's,  and  a's,  b's,  to  z's,  began  to 
show  their  bony  skeletons  below  the  picturesque 
flesh  and  blood  that  gave  form  to  the  artistic 
individuality  of  the  lecture.  Then  indeed  it 
became  apparent  that  the  distinguishing 
characteristics  of  his  presentation  were  clear- 
ness and  thoroughness,  and  that  his  fervour  was 
but  an  additional  quality  of  his  delivery,  pro- 
duced in  part  by  his  great  rapidity  of  speech 
and  by  the  physical  energy  displayed  in  flash- 
ing eyes  and  ringing  voice,  and  in  part  by  his 
strong  "Parteilichkeit."  For  it  soon  became 
clear  that  the  flame  of  his  eloquence  was  fanned 
by  his  passionate  interest  in  the  flowers  and 
the  flaws  of  the  doctrines  under  treatment  and 
their  evaluation  according  to  standards  he  him- 
self accepted,  and  which  he  wished  every  mind 
within  his  sphere  of  influence  to  accept. 

His  professorial  methods  contrasted  inter- 
estingly, I  reflected,  with  those  of  my  former 
teacher  from  whom  I  had  learned  what  a 
constructive  mind  can  do  in  the  field  of  the 
historical  and  critical.  For  that  marvellous 
interpreter  possessed  to  an  extraordinary  de- 
gree the  faculty  of  applying  the  Socratic 
method  to  his  own  mind,  so  that,  in  listening 
to  him,  one  assisted  at  the  very  conception, 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

embryonic  growth,  and  triumphant  birth  of 
a  prolific  family  of  thoughts.  His  brain  re- 
sembled, I  thought,  a  brilliant  ball  of  light  and 
heat;  light  to  bring  to  view  a  hundred  hidden 
or  only  potential  fads,  and  heat  to  develop  in 
them  sufficient  life  to  permit  them  to  evolve 
into  definite  shapes  with  definite  relations  to 
already  familar  things.  His  synthetic  mind 
touched  the  complexity  of  the  world  at  so 
many  points  that  from  the  contact  it  retained 
the  flavour  of  infinite  and  changing  reality,  and 
his  sympathetic  spirit  was  of  such  great  range 
and  such  penetrating  insight  into  the  visions  of 
others,  that  he  was  able  to  reproduce  any  and 
all  systems  of  philosophy  enveloped  in  the 
original  cloud  of  metaphysical  feeling  from 
which  they  had  concentrated.  .  .  . 

In  comparison  with  his  exciting  and  enrich- 
ing talk,  Rickert's  lectures  seemed  but  clarify- 
ing and  systematizing;  while  both  men  through 
their  enthusiasm  became  embodiments  of  the 
will  to  know  and  apostles  of  the  gospel  of  the 
supreme  importance  of  philosophical  truth. 


PHILOSOPHY 


M 


.Y  first  impression  of  the  Master  was 
marred  by  viewing  him  in  the  wrong  frame. 
On  the  occasion  of  my  introductory  call  he 
was  seated  in  his  drawing-room  with  a  pre- 
ternaturally'  grave  expression,  almost  a  suspi- 
cious one,  and  he  received  my  explanation  of 
the  object  of  my  visit  in  deep  and  distrustful 
silence.  Only  very  gradually,  and  not  before 
it  had  filled  me  with  discomfort  and  some  con- 
fusion, did  this  mental  attitude  give  way  to  a 
realization  on  his  part  of  the  necessity  of  dealing 
fairly  with  a  somewhat  novel  situation;  and 
the  possibility  of  finding  interest  in  it  penetrated 
his  consciousness  very  slowly,  it  seemed  to  me, 
before  it  wrung  from  him  a  more  or  less  gracious 
consent  to  my  request  for  the  privilege  of  his 
instruction.  But  once  having  made  up  his 
mind  to  accept  me,  a  female  stranger  of  un- 
known quality,  (if  only  experimentally,)  the 
suspicious  and  weighty  expression  left  him,  his 
eyes  flashed,  agreeable  and  still  youthful  smiles 
punctuated  his  animated  discussion  of  details, 
and  he  finally  dismissed  me  with  a  hearty 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

human  handshake  and  with  an  introduction 
to  the  Senior  of  the  "Seminar."  I  carried  with 
me  the  pleasant  feeling  that  from  an  objedl  of 
undisguised  suspicion  I  had  become  one  of  at 
least  pedagogical  interest  to  a  reputedly  splen- 
did teacher  and  an  agreeable  if  capricious  man. 
The  " Senior'*  to  whom  I  was  presented  I 
found  to  be  an  oldish  young  man,  short,  stocky, 
fair  and  ugly,  with  near-sighted  pince-nez' d 
eyes  that  rarely  looked  one  in  the  face,  but 
shifting  from  one  nearby  object  to  another 
seemed  to  see  only  one  thing  at  a  time  and 
nothing  at  all  in  the  distance.  The  Master 
rated  this  man  as  a  great  talent,  and  indeed  his 
power  of  dealing  in  subtle  abstractions  was 
extraordinary  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  his 
myopic  eyes  must  have  had  something  to  do 
with  the  development  of  this  power.  In  our 
slight  acquaintance  his  communications  were 
mainly  businesslike  in  matter,  but  were  de- 
livered in  an  abashed  and  apologetic  manner 
which  gave  to  them  a  strangely  insincere 
flavour,  the  reason  for  which  one  could  not 
divine  and  felt  no  inclination  to  search  after  even 
at  the  risk  of  doing  the  man  an  injustice.  So 
that  this  "ttichtiger  junger  Mann,"  as  the 
Master  had  called  him,  remained  a  closed  book 


PHILOSOPHY 


to  me,  one  with  an  unattractive  cover  and 
with  the  appearance  of  a  learned  and  instructive 
content;  in  fact  a  "tiichtige"  book,  —  the 
kind  one  stows  away  at  the  back  of  a  shelf 
with  slight  qualms  of  conscience,  and  watches 
disappear  with  a  feeling  of  immense  relief. 

Herr  Meyer  —  such  was  his  name  —  pre- 
sented to  me  a  key  to  the  Seminar  room,  whose 
door  having  no  handle  on  the  outside  kept 
out  the  illegitimate  and  keyless;  and  he  also 
instructed  me  in  seminarial  regulations.  The 
only  unusual  one  of  these  was  the  obligation  to 
rise  upon  the  entrance  of  the  Master  at  his 
weekly  Seminar  course  held  in  this  room.  It 
transpired  that  a  general  upjumping  with  mili- 
tary precision  upon  his  appearance  on  the 
threshold,  and  a  continuance  in  this  position 
until  a  gracious  wave  of  the  hand  worthy  of 
a  more  heroic  occasion  liberated  us,  was  a 
Freiburg  tradition  adhered  to  with  apparent 
enthusiasm. 

The  Seminar  room  itself  was  a  poor  little  con- 
cern, cut  down  its  middle  by  a  long  table  at 
which  we  all  worked,  and  covered  on  three  of 
its  sides  with  a  small  and  dusty  reference 
library.  It  was  situated  on  the  top  floor  of  the 
oldest  wing  of  the  University,  formerly  the 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

Monastery,  and  its  inadequate  windows  looked 
down  upon  a  narrow  stone-flagged  street 
flanked  on  the  opposite  side  by  little  old  houses 
in  which  bakers,  florists,  hair-dressers  and 
sausage-makers  lived  and  laboured.  Fortu- 
nately for  us  they  performed  both  these  duties 
in  an  unostentatious  manner,  and  the  ancient 
street,  the  old  cloister  building,  the  unimproved 
study  table  and  chairs,  and  the  musty  books 
filled  chiefly  with  ancient  thoughts,  all  har- 
monized and  gave  a  pleasing  sense  of  the  dignity 
and  weight  of  the  human  tradition  of  which  we, 
the  only  youthful  note  in  the  picture,  were  the 
outcome  and  the  heirs. 

Such  was  the  room,  such  was  the  fountain- 
head  at  which  we  imbibed  knowledge  which 
some  day,  combined  with  experience,  was  to 
undergo  a  chemical  change  within  the  organism 
and  be  transmuted  into  the  rare  stuff  of  wisdom. 
But  for  the  most  part  we  quaffed  knowledge 
without  "arriere-pensee,"  and  we  drank  it  for 
the  delicious  sensation  of  quenching  spiritual 
thirst,  and  found  it  a  strange  and  subtle  con- 
codtion  some  of  whose  elements  appeared  to 
soothe  and  satisfy  while  others  continually 
defeated  the  object  of  the  whole  by  creating 
anew  a  demand  for  more.  And  here  once  a 


PHILOSOPHY 


week  from  four  in  the  afternoon  until  six  or 
seven  the  great  fountain  of  knowledge  played 
to  our  delectation,  the  Master  held  "Seminar." 
On  my  first  appearance  at  the  Seminar  I  was 
given  a  seat  between  the  "tiichtiger  junger 
Mann"  and  the  Master  himself,  by  whom  Pwas 
presented  to  the  class  as  a  student  from  across 
the  Atlantic  desirous  of  making  her  "dodtor", 
and  of  working  along  the  lines  of  his,  the  Mas- 
ter's, philosophical  discoveries  (I  had  almost 
said  inventions),  wherefore  "it  was  not  un- 
natural that  to  her  should  be  assigned  the  last 
and  most  comprehensive  paper  of  the  Seminar's 
programme,  which  might  then  be  considered  a 
kind  of  test  of  the  abilities  of  the  writer  to 
fulfill  the  conditions  imposed  upon  anyone 
proposing  to  work  and  to  receive  the  reward  of 
work  with  him,  the  Master."  The  sixteen 
recipients  of  what  to  me,  filled  with  fright, 
seemed  an  entirely  confidential  communication 
suited  for  my  ears  alone,  behaved  —  as  far  as 
my  distracted  senses  permitted  me  to  observe  — 
with  almost  superhuman  politeness.  Not  an 
eye  turned  in  my  direction,  and  yet,  far  from 
comforting  me,  this  unnatural  procedure  gave 
me  the  feeling  of  being  a  lonely  beating  heart 
among  one  destruction-bringing  tornado  and 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

sixteen  mountain  peaks,  rigid,  icy,  incalcu- 
lably distant  and  decidedly  unsafe  for  human 
sojourn. 

This  episode  passed,  the  work  of  the  Semi- 
nar was  taken  in  hand:  Herr  Broderson,  the 
highest  peak,  read  a  paper  to  the  others,  after 
which  there  followed  a  rapid,  critical  summing 
up  by  the  tornado,  and  a  warm  discussion  on 
the  part  of  some  of  the  sixteen  which  soon 
thawed  them  into  the  semblance  of  eager  and 
absorbed  students  and  permitted  me  to  observe 
them  at  my  leisure. — Opposite  me  sat  a  tall,  fair- 
haired  man  of  the  type  usually  called  Christ- 
like;  his  forehead  was  high,  his  blue  eyes  had 
a  benign  mildness,  his  nose  was  prominent  with 
large  and  sensitive  nostrils,  and  his  mouth 
being  bearded  was  anything  one  wished  to 
imagine  it;  I  wished  to  imagine  it  refined  and 
sensitive.  His  personality  exhaled  spirituality 
of  a  sentimental  type;  there  clung  to  him  the 
flavour  of  the  eighteenth  century;  —  I  thought 
of  Schiller.  This  was  candidatus  philosophiae 
Schulze,  my  friend  to  be. 

Next  to  Schulze  sat  two  men,  who,  as  I  later 
learned,  were  close  friends  and  inseparable 
companions.  One  of  them  was  extremely  tall, 
thin  and  excessively  ugly;  his  head  and  face 


PHILOSOPHT 


were  of  a  roundness  most  unbecoming  to  his 
bony  frame,  and  his  look  was  keen,  hungry  and 
sly.  His  shorter  and  better  put-up  friend  had 
what  his  countrymen  called  a  "Charakter 
Kopf,"  his  hair  was  dishevelled,  and  he  shaved 
his  face,  but  his  good  looks  were  marred  by  the 
same  surreptitious  manner  of  viewing  the  part 
of  the  world  about  him  as  that  of  his  friend. 
The  first  man  was  reputed  a  mind  of  the  legal 
type,  the  second  a  poet.  These  two  men  ap- 
peared, even  upon  closer  acquaintance,  never 
to  dare  to  drop  their  masks  and  be  themselves, 
so  I  never  knew  any  more  of  them  than  their 
unadvantageous  shells.  In  spite  of,  or  perhaps 
because  of,  this  lack  of  sympathy,  they  to- 
gether with  the  "tiichtiger  junger  Mann"  did 
me  eminent  service,  which  I  quite  grew  to  depend 
on.  For  when  my  attention,  falling  back  into 
its  emotional  attitude,  wandered  from  one  com- 
panion in  study  to  the  other,  and,  in  attempt- 
ing the  vain  task  of  penetrating  intuitively  into 
their  minds,  tired  and  tormented  itself,  —  by 
returning  to  one  of  these  three  beings  it  came 
to  rest.  Here  at  least  no  problem  and  no  task 
tempted  me,  and  thus  I  owed  some  comfort  to 
these  rare  cases  of  antipathy. 

Next  to  these  men  sat  cand.  Traub,  a  shape- 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

less  man  with  clean-shaven  clear-cut  face  and 
fair  straight  hair  that  continually  fell  over  his 
forehead,  although  tossing  the  head  was  a  ges- 
ture never  undertaken  by  his  heavy  and  plod- 
ding organism.  In  his  characteristic  position 
he  sat  leaning  over  his  books  holding  his  head 
in  both  hands,  and  his  hot  and  ruffled  look 
bore  eloquent  witness  to  the  difficulties  of  the 
struggle.  In  intercourse  he  was  amiable  and 
unaggressive,  smiled  easily  and  spoke  mildly 
in  a  variety  of  the  North-German  tongue,  in 
which  even  Maeterlinck  dialogue  would  have 
sounded  cut  and  dried  and  sensible. 

By  his  side  sat  cand.  Gruntze.  Cand. 
Gruntze  came  from  Saxony,  and  having  just 
served  his  military  year  he  retained  a  great 
deal  of  military  form,  psychologically  speaking; 
physically,  he  was  a  compact,  rotund  person, 
and  the  combination  resulted  in  an  entertaining 
pomposity.  For  even  in  the  philosophical 
Seminar,  cand.  Gruntze  remained  the  "Welt- 
mann,"  whose  interests  no  Seminar  room  or 
any  other  device  whatever  could  prevent  from 
escaping  and  spanning  the  world.  And  this 
specialty  in  outlook  expressed  itself  even  sar- 
torially:  —  it  was  cand.  Gruntze's  custom  f.i. 
to  partake  of  the  two  o'clock  Sunday  dinner, 


PHILOSOPHY 


to  which  some  of  us  were  occasionally  invited 
at  the  Master's  home,  in  a  white  shirt  bosom 
and  evening  dress. 

Farther  along  the  line  sat  Dr.  Kantowitz,  a 
handsome  black-bearded  man,  who,  a  biologist 
by  profession,  had  entered  our  Seminar  solely 
in  order  to  discover  what  philosophy  had  to 
say  concerning  the  limitations  of  natural 
science.  His  social  manner  was  more  cosmo- 
politan and  more  polished  than  his  neighbours', 
and  moreover  he  seemed  the  only  one  among 
them  with  a  temperament  of  the  "feurige" 
order;  and  he  confined  exhibitions  of  his  en- 
thusiasm for  the  natural  sciences  and  his 
antipathy  to  philosophy  to  private  occasions, 
realizing  perhaps  that  in  class,  owing  to  his 
slight  acquaintance  with  the  latter,  the  results 
might  have  been  disastrous  for  him.  Opposite 
him  sat  Conner  and  Oesterling.  I  like  to  think 
of  them  now  as  I  liked  to  look  at  them  and  talk 
to  them  then;  two  good-looking,  big,  whole- 
some and  earnest  boys  of  the  same  fair  Teuton 
type,  strong,  slow  and  intelligent.  Conner 
was  a  "Badenser"  and  a  student  of  political 
economy,  and  Oesterling  a  Swabian  who  had 
decided  to  become  a  physician;  both  friends 
were  interested  in  philosophy  but  regarded  its 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

study  as  a  luxury  if  not  a  downright  orgy,  for 
they  were  what  is  called  practical-minded  souls 
who  realized  that  there  was  a  tremendous 
amount  of  work  waiting  to  be  done  in  the 
world,  and  that  they  were  meant  to  do  somet 
of  it  with  the  least  possible  delay. 

And  then  there  came  a  middle-aged  be- 
spectacled eminently  comfortable  and  dignified 
catholic  theologian  robed  in  his  black  gown, 
and  one  asked  herself  "Que  fait-il  dans  cette 
galere?"  The  remaining  students  included  two 
or  three  bearded  men  who  looked  alike  and 
seemed  to  attend  from  an  instinct  of  thorough- 
ness rather  than  a  love  of  philosophy,  and  a 
few  young  men  who  had  not  yet  made  up  their 
minds  where  their  great  talents  lay  and  were 
here  for  the  purpose  of  finding  out. 

I  entered  this  circle  of  philosophical  aspir- 
ants, socially  speaking,  one  Sunday  noon, 
when  the  Master  and  his  wife  gathered  us  at 
their  hospitable  board.  At  table,  and  through 
the  influence  of  many  kinds  of  wine,  tongues 
loosened,  and  the  resulting  conversation,  con- 
sidering the  relationship  between  ourselves, 
ignorant  if  anxious  pursuers  of  knowledge,  and 
himself,  omniscient  judge  of  the  universe,  was 
extraordinarily  lively  and  free,  and  whatever 


PHILOSOPHY 


lingered  of  reserve  and  formality  was  on  our 
part  rather  than  on  that  of  "Herr"  and  "Frau 
Professor."  Both  of  these  indeed  showed  a 
sincere  and  hearty  interest  in  us  all,  an  attitude 
for  which  my  previous  experience  in  home 
colleges  had  left  me  unprepared,  and  which 
therefore  greatly  amazed  me.  For  far  from 
confining  their  interest  to  our  philosophical 
predilections  and  development,  not  apparently 
considering  our  studying  selves  our  only  selves, 
they  showed  a  desire  to  become  acquainted 
with  all  phases  of  our  personalities,  histories 
and  aspirations,  in  my  case  extending  to  and 
embracing  the  manner  of  dressing  the  hair. 
This  conception  of  human  intercourse  was 
one  of  which  I  entirely  approved  in  theory, 
so  that  I  asked  myself:  why  does  it  not  work 
better  in  practice? 

The  Master's  villa  was  situated  on  an 
avenue  just  beyond  the  river  and  outside  the 
limits  of  the  town  proper.  On  the  occasion  of 
this  first  dinner,  cand.  Gruntze  in  his  dress 
suit,  and  the  legal  and  poetic  pair  of  friends 
and  cand.  Schulze  in  Prince  Albert  coats 
walked  back  to  the  town  with  me  in  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon.  We  marched  together  down 
the  shady  avenue,  and  marched  together  over 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

a  bridge  spanning  the  broad  river-bed.  The 
river  Dreysam  was  not  indeed  occupying  it, 
for  it  had  a  habit  of  drying  up  in  summer,  but 
three  or  four  bridges  with  mediaeval  towers 
crossed  it,  and  pretty  green  lawns  and  gardens 
lay  down  beside  it,  and  the  whole  town  made  a 
great  fuss  about  it  architecturally,  so  that  it 
was  hard  to  get  used  to  its  not  being  there  at 
all.  And  all  of  a  sudden  everything  seemed  so 
strange  and  improbable  (to  say  the  least)  that 
I  asked  myself  with  a  secret  look  at  the  four 
pairs  of  original  shoes  (also  to  say  the  least) 
marching  beside  me  in  a  row,  whether  I  was 
dreaming  or  waking.  .  .  . 

And  beyond  the  bridge  we  marched  along 
another  sunny  and  shady  avenue  to  the  house 
in  which  I  lived  and  where  my  white  balustraded 
balcony  overhanging  the  lilacs  greeted  me,  and 
here  the  four  pairs  of  shoes  saluted  in  military 
fashion,  four  hats  were  snatched  off  in  unison 
and  restored  to  their  places  in  leisure,  and  the 
dress  suit  and  three  Prince  Albert  coats  marched 
away.  But  the  warm  sunshiny  Sunday  air  re- 
mained and  the  lilacs  wafted  familiar  fragrance 
through  it,  and  the  Miinster-chimes  filled  it 
musically  and  I  and  my  two  feet  were  alone 
and  I  again  felt  awake  and  probable.  .  .  . 


PHILOSOPHY 


H 


.AVING  entered  the  Seminar  family,  my 
position  gradually  became  defined.  Herr  Meyer, 
the  "tiichtiger  junger  Mann,"  as  became  his 
character  and  position,  accepted  me  without 
question  and  with  a  sense  of  responsibility; 
Herr  Broderson  with  friendly  interest,  confined 
to  the  sphere  of  intellect,  likewise  Herr  Schulze 
whose  interest  did  not  appear  quite  so  concen- 
trated. Herr  Gruntze  accepted  me  because  as 
a  man  of  the  world  he  was  bound  to  welcome 
any  addition  to  his  "entourage";  Herr  Traub 
accepted  me  as  another  complication  of  a  not 
entirely  unpleasant  kind  in  an  already  ex- 
tremely complicated  situation  out  of  which 
he  was  to  extricate  himself  with  a  doctor's 
degree.  The  natural-science  man  welcomed 
me  as  a  factor  capable,  if  things  went  well,  of 
off-setting  the  tedium  of  acquiring  evidence 
of  the  futility  of  philosophical  enquiry,  of 
which  he  was  already  fully  convinced.  The 
theological  student  accepted  me,  as  he  prob- 
ably accepted  all  things  good  or  bad  emanat- 
ing from  one  divine  source,  without  mental 

[30 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

comment,  helplessly,  resignedly.  The  one  pair 
of  friends  perhaps  tolerated  me  as  inevitable, 
and  the  pair  of  nice  boys  thought  me,  I  hoped, 
a  nice  girl. 

As  the  etiquette  of  the  Seminar  room,  which 
was  essentially  a  library,  demanded  silence, 
acquaintance  progressed  slowly;  most  of  the 
time  a  half-dozen  of  us  sat  scattered  along  the 
long  table,  immersed  in  some  profound  or  bot- 
tomless pool  in  the  ocean  of  philosophy  that 
surrounded  us,  silent  and  absorbed.  And  in 
the  lecture-rooms  our  small  band  lost  itself 
among  the  hundred  or  more  of  the  general 
student  body  in  attendance  and  found  little 
opportunity  for  intercourse.  The  men  no 
doubt  met  outside  the  University  and  dis- 
cussed philosophy  while  they  ate  in  company 
at  their  favourite  "Wirtshaus"  in  the  town,  or 
walked  in  company  to  their  favourite  "Wirt- 
shaus" outside  the  town.  In  theory  I  envied 
them,  but  in  fact  I  was  entirely  content. 

For  not  only  were  the  afternoons  quite  com- 
pletely rilled  with  study  and  lectures,  but  there 
were  my  wonderful  mornings  in  their  large 
summer  size.  These  long  and  empty  and  airy 
mornings  I  ostensibly  used  for  exercise,  but 
what  I  really  did  was  daily  to  succumb  to  the 

C333 


PHILOSOPHY 


charms  of  nature  in  perfect  placidity.  For  the 
environs  of  Freiburg  were  lovely,  and  they 
were  generously  easy  of  approach  to  their 
lovers. 

Within  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  walk  from 
home  miles  of  lovely  meadows,  white  and 
yellow,  purple  and  pink  with  the  changing 
season,  spread  out  in  peaceful  and  broad  am- 
plitude, and  through  them  little  paths  had  been 
cut  for  those  who,  like  myself,  loved  to  walk 
in  the  green  and  gold,  and  yet  could  not  bear 
to  tread  down  living  things.  These  meadows, 
which  formed  a  broad  valley  flanked  by  the 
woods,  some  miles  beyond  began  to  narrow, 
and  the  flat  woods  rose  to  hills,  and  after  a 
while  the  valley  climbed  gently  upward  be- 
tween hills  that  grew  taller  and  taller,  until 
finally  the  famous  gorge  of  the  Hollenthal  was 
reached.  Here  a  fat  little  train  puffed  its  way 
up  through  pine  forests  past  torrents  and  fan- 
tastic rocks  and  mountain  chalets  to  the  high- 
est point,  the  "Titisee",  where  it  deposited 
Freiburgers  and  other  lowlanders,  sometimes 
for  a  row  on  the  green  lake,  and  always  for  a 
luncheon  of  trout  and  white  wine. 

Near  the  town  the  valley  was  dotted  with 
gay  villages.  Many  of  their  white-washed 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

cottages  had  bright  blue  or  green  shutters  and 
on  the  shutters  painted  roses  and  daisies 
bloomed,  and  sometimes  even  blood-red 
hearts.  .  .  .  And  in  front  of  them  tiny  gar- 
dens stood  guard,  and  their  flowers  were 
planted  with  regimental  regularity  and  when 
there  was  a  breeze  they  did  not  blow  about  in 
it,  but  exercised.  And  back  of  and  around  the 
cottages  fruit  orchards  afforded  shade  to  the 
still  unemployed  members  of  the  peasant's 
family,  besides  looking  lovely.  And  all  these 
villages,  no  matter  how  small  or  remote,  con- 
tained available  supplies  of  coffee,  bread  and 
butter,  honey,  cheese  and  beer,  and  a  shady 
garden  in  which  to  consume  them,  so  that  no 
native  wanderer  had  ever  to  put  to  himself 
the  disconcerting  query:  why  have  I  come 
here? 

And  at  almost  any  point  one  could  cut  across 
the  fields,  and,  leaving  behind  what  seemed 
like  the  golden  peace  of  the  droning  hum  of 
farming  life,  could  enter  into  the  dark  and 
silent  peace  of  the  woods.  These  wonderful 
pine  woods,  which  were  cleared  of  underbrush 
so  that  the  trees  stood  out  individually  in  their 
tall  grace,  likewise  possessed  innumerable  paths 
and  trails,  and  at  every  particularly  charming 


PHILOSOPHY 


turn  rustic  benches  invited  the  admirer  to 
linger.  All  of  these  nooks  and  points  of  view 
bore  names  made  known  to  the  wanderer  on 
sign-boards,  and  most  often  they  were  names 
of  saints  or  of  great  literary  or  scientific  heroes, 
and  no  doubt  were  intended  for  suggestions 
to  the  loiterer  as  to  the  direction  his  thoughts 
should,  in  the  opinion  of  the  authorities 
concerned,  take.  At  Goethe's  Ecke  it  might 
perhaps  be  possible  to  think  of  St.  Hubert's 
experiences,  and  at  the  Teufelsbriicke  of  St. 
Ottilie,  and  at  St.  Ottilienburg  of  Goethe,  but 
this  was  no  longer  easy,  and  probably  few 
persons  were  so  wantonly  perverse.  —  To  wan- 
der in  these  forests,  to  listen  to  the  branches 
singing,  the  little  cascades  splashing  from 
stone  to  stone,  to  watch  the  life  stirring  in  the 
moss  and  the  fern,  and  the  flecks  of  sunlight 
jump  from  spot  to  spot  was  refreshing  to  the 
soul  like  delicious  sleep,  —  the  charm  of  the 
somnolent  state  lying  in  the  fact  that  deep 
down  the  soul  knows  itself  to  be  asleep  and 
able  to  awaken  at  will. 

But  even  better  than  wandering  alone  through 
nature  was  wandering  "a  deux"  with  Wanda, 
the  good  old  horse  rented  from  Herr  Uni- 
versitatsreitlehrer  Fiedler,  —  good  being  used 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

here  in  its  purely  Kantian  sense  and  not  in 
that  of  efficiency.  Wanda  was  amiable,  stout, 
lazy  and  harmless,  and  did  the  best  she  could 
with  her  equipment,  which  included  neither  a 
knowledge  of  trotting  nor  any  aspirations  to- 
wards temperament  and  its  manifestations. 
Indeed  there  is  no  doubt  that  in  all  her  long 
previous  history,  Wanda  had  known  only  two 
excursions  into  the  world,  for  around  and 
about  Freiburg  there  existed  but  two  roads 
terminating  in  bridle-paths.  The  less  attrac- 
tive of  these  led  out  of  the  town  past  the 
scientific  schools  and  laboratories,  past  the 
hospitals,  the  prison  and  the  "Kaserne,"  and 
away  from  the  high  road,  through  meadows, 
to  a  broad  stretch  of  flat  land  forming  the  ma- 
noeuvre field  where  military  exercises  and  sham 
battles  were  held.  Along  this  field,  at  the  edge 
of  some  sparse  woods  enclosing  it,  ran  one  of 
the  bridle-paths,  and  if  one  wished  to  take 
Wanda  seriously  and  treating  her  as  an  end  in 
herself  let  her  practice  her  only  accomplishment, 
the  canter,  —  here  was  the  most  favourable 
opportunity.  On  the  one  occasion  on  which  I 
brought  her  hither  we  encountered  war.  Little 
bright-hued  soldiers  leaped  from  hollows  in  a 
most  unexpected  way  and  pointed  their  guns, 

C373 


PHILOSOPHY 


as  it  seemed  to  me,  at  Wanda  and  myself; 
groups  of  them  encircled  us  in  wild  rushes  on 
all  sides,  lieutenants  ran  out  of  the  woods  in  a 
great  hurry  and  transfixed  us  with  stares,  and 
Wanda  had  occasionally  to  ride  through  a 
concert  of  cannonading,  and  occasionally  also 
through  one  of  martial  music,  which  groups  of 
soldiers  were  prettily  practicing  on  fifes  in 
shady  groves,  with  sheets  of  music  nailed  to 
tree  trunks  in  sylvan  fashion. 

The  second  official  ride  was  the  more  idyllic 
one.  It  led  out  through  my  street  and  through 
the  Master's  and  branched  off  at  the  municipal 
tennis  courts  along  an  interminable  and  hard 
road  which  looked  shady  but  was  not,  until  it 
reached  that  part  of  the  forest  in  which  lay 
the  "Waldsee."  This  sheet  of  water  called  a 
lake  was  the  so-to-say  great  bourgeois  nature- 
enjoyment  institution  of  Freiburg.  It  accom- 
modated itself  to  and  became  a  setting  for  all 
amusements  in  which  it  was  suitable  for  good 
citizens  of  a  small  town  to  indulge.  In  the 
summer  time  breakfasts,  dinners  and  suppers 
were  served  and  engagement  and  wedding 
parties  were  celebrated  in  the  halls  of  its 
restaurant  whose  terraces  covered  half  its 
shore,  while  on  its  surface  boats  were  provided 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

as  an  opportunity  to  become  inclined  to  repeat 
the  repast.  Numerous  benches  within  half  a 
mile  invited  those  who  had  over-exercised 
either  at  the  repast  or  after  it  to  rest  themselves 
in  the  cool  forest  shade.  And  although  there 
existed  one  terrace  reserved  for  those  who 
preferred  originally  white  table-cloths  to  red 
ones  and  higher  prices  to  lower,  this  con- 
cession to  the  aristocratic  pretences  of  life  was 
not  taken  advantage  of  and  the  lake  remained 
exclusively  red  table-clothed,  moderate  and 
bourgeois.  Along  the  side  of  this  complex 
institution  ran  the  second  bridle-path  of  which 
the  town  boasted,  and  it  was  here  that  Wanda 
felt  most  at  home.  Here  she  would  canter 
energetically  for  a  short  time,  and  in  the 
consciousness  of  having  done  her  part  as  a 
respectable,  settled  and  unathletic  horse  should, 
she  too  sought  her  rest  in  the  shade,  where  she 
stood,  only  because  nature  had  not  adapted 
her  to  the  sitting  posture,  and  where  if  possible 
she  ate  the  trees. —  But  it  rarely  happened  that 
Wanda  was  treated  according  to  the  Kantian 
moral  law.  For  the  most  part  she  was  de- 
graded to  a  mere  instrument  of  man,  and  was 
walked  through  forest  roads  and  through  miles 
of  flat  country  past  villages  as  unfamiliar  to 


PHILOSOPHY 


her  rider  as  to  herself;  and  from  being  a  fat 
and  contented  bourgeoise,  Wanda  was  forced 
to  become  an  exploring  tramp. 

In  such  fashion  three  weeks  or  more  had 
passed.  — 

In  the  morning  I  told  myself:  "I  am  en- 
joying myself  in  such  a  manner  that  I  am 
gathering  strength  without  dissipating  it;  how 
fortunate  I  am."  In  the  afternoon:  "I  am 
learning  the  things  I  thirst  to  know,  in  leisure 
and  in  peace  of  mind;  how  fortunate  I  am." 
At  twilight:  "A  long  future  will  see  the  activ- 
ity of  these  stored-up  forces;  how  wonderful  it 
will  be."  And  at  night:  "It  has  been  a  quiet, 
rich  and  splendid  day.  I  am  alone,  but  I  am 
not  lonely," 

This  last  reflection  —  that  I  was  not  lonely 
—  introduced  itself,  perhaps,  because,  as  gradu- 
ally I  became  more  familiar  with  my  surround- 
ings in  the  sense  in  which  one  is  familiar  with 
natural  phenomena  of  which  one  understands 
little,  but  having  observed  cause  and  effect 
knows  what  to  expect  on  condition  of  abstain- 
ing from  interference,  —  I  occasionally  did 
become  obsessed  by  a  desire  to  interfere.  I 
sometimes  did  long  to  experiment  with  these 
surroundings  by  introducing  into  their  orderly 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

progression  the  element  of  myself,  and  then  by 
observing  their  reaction  on  this  known  element, 
to  guess  at  their  real  quality.  In  a  phrase: 
I  sometimes  longed  to  graduate  from  the 
spectator  to  the  actor.  —  But  only  at  rare 
moments.  On  the  whole  I  was  glad,  profoundly 
and  consistently  glad  to  be  on  the  spectator's 
side  of  the  foot-lights  in  this  theatre  of  life. 
On  the  whole,  I  thoroughly  enjoyed  my  ex- 
clusive box,  for  tho'  it  was  upstairs  and  remote 
and  perhaps  rather  too  far  to  the  side,  it  had 
air  and  perspective  and  distance,  and  from  it 
I  watched  in  leisure,  in  peace,  in  absorption 
and  without  self-consciousness.  And  in  the 
background  of  consciousness  was  the  comfort- 
ing belief  that  at  any  moment  I  could  change 
my  seat,  either  through  partnership  with  some- 
one more  fortunately  placed,  or  through  ex- 
change, or  by  simply  stepping  on  the  stage:  — 
namely  in  case  of  loneliness. 

But  before  I  was  in  the  least  lonely,  my 
solitude  was  ended  in  a  way  I  had  neither  fore- 
seen nor  imagined.  Another  spectator  joined 
me  in  my  box:  Taddeo. 


PHILOSOPHY 


ADDEO  first  appeared  at  a  Seminar 
meeting  several  weeks  after  the  term  opened. 
I  had  come  in  late  and  as  my  eyes  swept  along 
the  table  they  encountered  this  new  vision 
placed  by  a  picturesque  whim  of  destiny  next 
to  the  theologian.  His  sight  so  astonished  me 
that  I  hardly  realized  that  the  situation  was 
other  than  fanciful,  or  that  it  called  for  the 
ordinary  application  of  the  restraint  exercised 
by  manners.  I  was  guilty  of  staring  at  Taddeo 
in  complete  absorption  until  he  raised  his  eyes 
and  they  happened  to  meet  mine.  This  sign 
of  reality  on  the  part  of  the  interesting  object 
restored  to  me  a  sense  of  the  conventional 
aspects  of  the  situation  and  caused  me  to 
divert  my  eyes.  Not  so  my  thoughts,  which 
clung  to  what  I  had  perceived  with  shameless 
persistency.  I  had  seen  a  pale  and  beautiful 
face  with  very  sad,  black  eyes  gleaming  from 
a  waxen  skin  as  smooth  as  a  girl's,  a  sensitive 
mouth  which  was  saved  from  too  perfect 
regularity  by  dipping  corners  that  gave  to  it 
a  queer  expression  of  both  sulkiness  and  con- 

C.4O 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

trol,  and  a  broad  forehead  with  black  hair 
brushed  back  from  it,  a  wonderfully  moulded 
cheek  and  a  slightly  curved  nose  with  ex- 
quisitely cut  nostrils.  I  also  had  had  time, 
before  the  irruption  of  my  inconvenient  man- 
ners, to  notice  that  this  most  extraordinarily 
beautiful  and  grave  youth  had  beautiful  hands. 
And  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  so  sad  a  face, 
and  I  was  sure  I  had  never  seen  so  beautiful 
a  face.  And  only  after  turning  my  eyes  away 
and  seeing  him  from  a  temporal  distance,  as 
it  were,  and  no  longer  absorbed  in  the  pure 
apprehension  of  him,  the  question  of  his  ma- 
terial status  arose.  He  simply  could  not  be 
German,  neither  was  he  of  any  race  I  could 
think  of.  And  in  a  moment,  by  some  flash 
of  intuitive  sympathy,  and  helped  perhaps  by 
the  contrast  of  the  serious  elderly  theologian, 
intellectually  empty,  emotionally  undeveloped, 
and  temperamentally  resigned,  I  knew  that 
Taddeo,  whatever  his  nationality  might  be, 
was  a  Jew.  And  as  I  could  not  gaze  at  him 
continually  and  yet  could  not,  for  the  moment, 
concentrate  on  the  droning  voice  of  the  reader, 
I  occupied  myself  with  the  attempt  to  wander 
in  fancy  up  the  ancestral  lines  of  these  two 
neighbours.  I  did  not  succeed  in  visualizing 

£43  3 


PHILOSOPHY 


the  unknown  barbarian  who  first  felt  or  was 
forced  to  feel  the  charm  and  potency  of  the 
message  of  Christ,  but  the  less  distant,  re- 
spectable small  shop-keepers,  who  generation 
after  generation  unloaded  one  of  their  many 
sons  on  the  Church,  were  not  hard  to  picture. 
The  pale  youth's  ancestry  of  the  mediaeval 
interval  of  Ghetto  confinement  was  suggested 
by  his  melancholy  eyes,  I  thought;  his  intel- 
lectual brow  called  up  memories  of  philosophers 
and  physicians  scattered  over  classical  lands;  and 
his  sensitive  lips  and  their  forbidding  control 
suggested  the  luxury-loving  and  sensuous  people 
in  the  time  of  their  national  greatness.  .  .  . 

When  I  had  progressed  thus  far  I  allowed 
myself  to  steal  another  view  of  my  opposites, 
and  just  then  some  little  adventure  a  propos 
of  a  book  must  have  befallen  them,  for  the 
theologian  picked  it  up,  and  Taddeo  thanked 
him  with  a  smile.  The  smile  was  a  seraphic 
smile  and  it  dimpled  his  cheeks  and  filled  his 
black  eyes  with  gleaming  and  dancing  light, 
it  raised  the  sulking  corners  of  his  mouth, 
showing  his  beautiful  teeth,  and  completely 
chased  away  for  a  moment  his  austerity  and 
melancholy.  This,  I  decided,  (for  the  sake  of 
completeness  chiefly  perhaps)  was  the  visual 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

sign  of  the  understanding  sympathy  for  all 
things  human  that  the  Jewish  race  of  today 
has  received  as  a  compensatory  result  of  their 
varied  but  always  tragic  destinies. 

The  droning  voice,  belonging,  as  it  happened, 
to  the  legal  one  of  the  pair  of  friends,  finally 
ceased,  and  general  discussion  followed.  In 
its  course  a  question  was  addressed  to  the  new- 
comer, and  this  filled  me  with  the  discomfort 
attaching  to  nameless  forebodings,  until  upon 
hearing  the  answer,  it  gave  way  to  amazement 
of  the  intensity  that  shocks  and  pains.  For 
this  extraordinary  creature  spoke  in  the 
German  tongue,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  had 
the  night  winds  in  the  lilac  bushes  or  the  stream- 
lets rippling  over  their  beds  of  moss  of  a  sud- 
den used  the  German  language,  it  could  have 
been  no  more  startling.  Neither  could  I  be- 
lieve that  it  was  my  surprised  and  unbalanced 
fancy  alone  that  had  woven  this  youth  into  a 
totally  immaterial  creature,  an  abstraction  in 
human  form,  the  embodiment  of  the  melan- 
choly poetry  of  the  destinies  of  a  race,  whose 
auditory  expression  would  surely  have  to  be 
some  languid  tongue,  softly  and  slowly  chanted. 
And  indeed,  I  never  grew  accustomed  to 
Taddeo's  almost  pure  German,  and  it  always 

C4S3 


PHILOSOPHY 


struck  me  as  unsuitable  and  disharmonious 
with  his  being,  as  did  his  father's  name,  which 
was  Dorter. 

But  for  the  present  I  did  not  know  Taddeo 
nor  he  me.  And  for  two  weeks  I  saw  him  almost 
daily  and  in  spite  of  deriding  myself  I  could 
not  stifle  the  feeling  that  something  in  the 
arrangement  of  things  was  blind  and  stupid, 
and  that  if  I  were  to  let  this  center  of  possi- 
bilities called  Taddeo  Dorter,  this  being  who 
sucked  up  my  sympathies  without  response, 
pass  by  and  away,  I  should  be  equally  blind 
and  stupid.  —  So  I  sat  in  my  box  above  and 
watched  chance  operating  below  and  beyond, 
and  disgust  for  her  power  filled  me,  and  annoy- 
ance, for  I  didn't  foresee  that  I  should  owe 
Taddeo  to  her.  And  when  it  so  came  about  I 
found  the  fadl  that  an  indifferent  irrational 
force  had  brought  us  to  one  another  exceed- 
ingly humiliating,  and  felt  as  if  somehow  we 
had  deserved  better.  — 


£46 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 


o 


'NE  warm  morning  Wanda  and  I  were 
walking  slowly  (of  course)  up  a  hard  sunny 
country  road,  on  both  sides  of  which  the  forest 
stretched  invitingly,  when  we  came  upon  a 
narrow  trail  leading,  or,  at  any  rate,  beckon- 
ing into  the  cool  paths  of  the  forest.  And  al- 
though the  atmosphere  was  permeated  by 
"Verboten,"  its  visual  sign  was  by  chance 
missing,  and  I  turned  Wanda  into  the  trail. 
It  so  happened  that  we  had  progressed  but  a 
few  yards,  when,  in  attempting  to  evade  a  low- 
hanging  and  very  thick  branch,  in  a  moment 
my  hair  (I  had  taken  off  my  hat)  became  en- 
tangled, the  branch  held  my  head  prisoner 
long  enough  to  pull  me  from  the  saddle,  the 
pommel  held  my  skirt  prisoner,  and  as  Wanda, 
unknowing  or  uncaring,  continued  on  her 
walk,  my  head,  freed  from  the  branch,  trailed 
along  the  ground.  My  whole  body,  owing  to 
the  firmly  involved  skirt,  was  petrified  into  a 
permanent  state  of  sliding  off  the  horse  in  an 
almost  perpendicularly  inverted  position.  I 
had  time  to  understand  my  plight  before  the 

C473 


PHILOSOPHY 


blood  filled  my  head  completely,  and  I  realized 
that  were  I  to  attempt  to  kick  myself  free  of 
the  pommel,  I  should,  if  unsuccessful,  start 
up  Wanda,  who  was  unaccustomed  to  protests, 
and,  if  successful,  be  assured  a  nasty  fall  on 
my  back.  Perplexed  and  filled  with  wonder 
and  resentment  that  Wanda  and  I  should  have 
so  fantastic  an  adventure,  I  felt  my  head  be- 
coming less  and  less  adequate  to  meet  the 
situation,  and  suddenly  at  the  prospedl  of 
losing  consciousness  horrible  fright  overcame 
me,  my  heart  began  to  thump,  my  dizzy  head 
filled  and  I  felt  the  whole  situation  and  every- 
thing about  me  slipping  away,  and  the  last 
things  of  which  I  was  conscious  were  the  brown 
dirt  and  the  little  bits  of  green  and  the  stones 
that  had  begun  to  run  past  my  heavy  head 
as,  supported  by  my  arm,  it  hobbled  along 
the  road. 

The  next  thing  of  which  I  was  entirely  aware 
was  Taddeo's  face  as  he  kneeled  in  front  of  me 
holding  a  flask  to  my  lips.  Before  that,  indeed, 
I  had  had  a  half-conscious  appreciation  that 
the  jerking  had  ceased,  that  some  ease  and 
comfort  had  come  to  my  body,  but  all  this 
felt  far  off  and  as  if  the  feeling  belonged  to 
someone  else.  As  now  I  looked  up  and  felt  the 

1:4*  3 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

blood  and  the  pain  ebbing  slowly  from  my 
head  and  knew  that  I  was  safe  and  unhurt, 
a  great  desire  to  cry  overcame  me,  and  my  lips 
began  to  tremble  and  I  knew  that  if  I  relaxed 
them  for  a  moment  to  take  the  drink  he  held 
to  them,  there  would  be  no  possibility  of  hold- 
ing back  the  sobs  that,  gathered  in  my  breast, 
were  ready  to  break  forth.  I  shoved  away  the 
cup,  covered  my  face  with  my  hands,  and 
rolling  over  buried  it  in  the  moss  I  was  lying 
on,  and  tried  my  best  to  apply  a  method  which, 
when  a  little  girl,  I  had  devised  for  this  very 
purpose  of  shutting  out  unpleasant  visions.  I 
took  a  huge  imaginary  bottle  of  ink  and  a 
brush  to  match,  and  dipping  it  into  the  ink,  I 
began  to  brush  out  the  whole  picture  which 
I  had  previously  visualized  as  I  visualized  all 
I  remembered  or  imagined.  (Sometimes  one 
coat  of  ink  would  not  suffice,  —  the  worst 
features  of  the  picture  would  crop  up  and  stick 
out  of  the  ink,  —  but  after  two  coats  I  rarely 
had  trouble,  if  I  was  agile  and  turned  myself 
and  my  thoughts  away  as  soon  as  the  picture 
had  completely  disappeared.)  I  then  immedi- 
ately thought  of  something  pleasant  which  I 
had  prepared  while  applying  the  ink,  and 
breathed  hard,  and  after  a  few  moments  I  was 


PHILOSOPHY 


sufficiently  restored  to  be  able  to  sit  up  and 
face  the  situation.  I  saw  that  Taddeo  was 
busy  with  Wanda's  saddle  and  bridle,  and  it 
surprised  and  annoyed  me  to  observe  that 
Wanda  was  again  eating  a  tree.  Taddeo  was 
himself  dressed  for  riding,  but  his  horse  was 
not  visible.  As  I  watched  him  working  at  the 
stirrups,  my  whole  being  now  permeated  with 
content  and  with  the  desire  to  arrest  this 
moment  and  keep  it  unchanged,  he  heard  me 
move  and  turned  toward  me;  I  smiled,  and 
he  smiled  back  and  came  to  me. 

"Are  you  feeling  better?"  he  said  to  me  in 
very  pretty  and  pure  English.  "And  would 
you  not  take  a  little  brandy  now  to  help  you?" 

"You  know  English,"  I  said,  "so  I  can 
thank  you  in  English.  Tell  me  what  hap- 
pened." 

He  told  me  how  he  had  been  riding  back  of 
me,  and  had  seen  me  enter  the  trail  and,  think- 
ing that  I  might  fall  into  trouble,  had  dis- 
mounted and  followed  on  foot. 

"You  do  not  mind  that  I  came,  do  you?" 
he  said,  and  his  sweet  smile  drove  the  melan- 
choly from  his  eyes.  "I  think  not,"  he  con- 
tinued, "because  I  am  going  to  fetch  you  your 
shell  pins  from  the  road,  your  hair-ribbon, 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

your  hat,  and  the  flowers  from  your  belt,  and 
your  tan  belt  itself,  and  then  I  shall  read  you 
a  ledture,"  he  added,  "and  take  you  home." 

What  I  thought  was:  "Taddeo,  I  know  you 
now,  and  you  know  me,  everything  is  changed." 

What  I  said  was:  "You  have  knowledge, 
Herr  Kommilitone,  of  my  hair-ribbon,  and  my 
nosegay,  and  my  tan  belt,  and  my  need  of  a 
lecture?"  And  suddenly  it  occurred  to  me 
that  he  had  knowledge  also  of  how  I  had  lost 
them  and  knowledge  of  my  faint  and  knowledge 
of  how  to  carry  me  to  the  moss  and  how  to 
help  me  to  come  to.  And  I  felt  somehow  as  if 
the  moment  were  too  full  of  meaning  or  of 
possibility  to  be  considered  otherwise  than 
with  a  smile  and  a  flush,  while  I  thanked  him 
once  more,  as  he  gravely  and  sweetly  and 
simply  restored  my  appurtenances  to  me. 

"Only  the  flowers  I  could  not  find,"  he  said. 

We  started  back  through  the  woods  to  where 
his  horse  was  tethered;  he  leading  Wanda, 
who  trod  down  the  primroses  and  pansies 
that  had  but  a  short  time  ago  been  a  bunch  in 
my  belt.  On  the  way  back  to  town,  with  the 
intimacy  bred  by  an  important  experience 
exclusively  shared,  we  discussed  the  matters 
of  our  student  life. 


PHILOSOPHY 


"And  will  you  now  tell  me,  Herr  Kommili- 
tone,"  I  said  smilingly  to  my  charming  com- 
panion, and  my  eyes  must  have  looked  the 
warmth  I  felt,  "why  of  all  the  students  you 
alone  have  withheld  all  welcome  from  me, 
your  Kommilitonin  ? " 

His  eyes  went  dark  for  a  moment,  he  sqemed 
to  start  with  surprise,  and  he  replied  half 
ironically  and  yet  with  a  smile:  "Because  I 
alone  of  all  the  students  was  picked  by  destiny 
to  be  your  rescuer  and  not  merely  your  Kom- 
militone.  I  shall  not  be  a  mere  Kommilitone 
to  you  now,  is  it  not  true?" 

That  evening  as  I  sat  at  my  desk  at  work,  a 
bunch  of  lilies  of  the  valley  and  violets  exhaled 
fragrance  into  the  air,  mingling  with  the  charm 
of  the  personality  of  the  picturesque  youth 
that  memory  exhaled.  His  beautiful  face,  the 
mouth  that  smiled  or  suffered,  the  glowing 
eyes  under  the  thoughtful  brow,  his  gentle 
raillery  and  sudden  flushes  like  indrawings  of 
his  soul,  all  touched  me  even  in  memory.  As 
I  breathed  in  the  perfume  of  his  flowers  and 
thought  of  him,  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  he 
was  the  first  point  at  which  I  had  actually 
touched  human  life  directly.  And  as  I  com- 
pared him  with  the  many  men  and  women 

CsO 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

with  whom  I  was  in  contact,  these  others  began 
to  shrink,  until  losing  their  three  dimensions 
they  jumped  into  print,  and  before  my  mind's 
eye  my  entire  Freiburg  acquaintance  was  seen 
disporting  itself  on  the  pages  of  the  "Fliegende 
Blatter",  the  "Jugend",  and  the  "Illustrierte 
Kunst",  as  the  case  might  be.  A  few  indeed 
resisted;  Herr  Broderson  became  a  Diirer 
drawing,  Herr  Schulze  a  Moritz  von  Schwind, 
and  the  Master  himself  and  the  two  nice  boys 
were  transformed  into  Klinger  etchings.  In 
this  gallery  my  new  friend  alone  stood  out  as 
a  genuine  portrait  in  oil,  and  I  decided  that 
from  him  one  got  the  feeling  of  a  great  Rem- 
brandt, the  colour,  the  light,  the  depth  of  real 
life.  Or  no,  not  quite  a  Rembrandt,  I  cor- 
rected my  vision,  for  he  also  had  the  smooth- 
ness and  firmness  of  the  Italian  masters,  — 
Franciabigio  came  to  my  mind;  and  he  was 
not  a  half  clear  and  half  mysterious  creature, 
he  was  all  light  at  one  moment  and  all  hidden 
in  shadows  at  the  next.  And  after  further 
search  for  his  pictorial  prototype,  it  occurred 
to  me  that  he  had  none,  and  needed  none,  and 
that  he  was  individual  and  unique,  and  that  in 
this  lay  his  charm. 

In  memory  I  went  over  our  ride  home  once 


PHILOSOPHY 


more;  I  saw  Taddeo  on  his  splendid  horse  and 
myself  on  poor  Wanda.  And  I  remembered 
what  silly  thoughts  had  time  to  sprout  in  my 
mind,  how  I  had  told  myself:  "I  hope  the 
equation:  as  Wanda  to  Wiswamitra,  so  I  to 
him,  doesn't  hold  good,"  and  yet  obstinately 
strove  to  express  our  relation  in  some  other 
equational  form,  and  tried  every  possible  com- 
bination. "As  Wiswamitra  to  him,  so  Wanda 
to  me,"  which  was  too  uncomplimentary  to  me; 
"as  Wanda  to  him,  so  Wiswamitra  to  me," 
this  too  flattering  to  me.  Finally  I  made  it: 
"As  Wanda  to  Wiswamitra,  so  Wiswamitra  to 
him,"  leaving  myself  out.  I  excused  my  silli- 
ness on  the  grounds  that  it  was  due  to  my 
sudden  and  obliged-to-be-suppressed  pleasure. 
—  And  of  what  had  we  spoken?  Of  Wis- 
wamitra, who  was  Italian,  and  of  Wanda,  who 
was  German,  and  from  here  we  had  drifted 
into  talk  about  different  nations  and  countries, 
and  he  had  told  me  that  he  was  an  Italian  by 
nationality,  and  had  spoken  with  much  love 
and  ardour  of  his  home  near  Florence,  an  old 
palace  in  Renaissance  gardens,  and  I  had  told 
him  how  Italy  charmed  me  beyond  all  other 
countries  for  reasons  I  could  not  define,  with 
the  mysterious  fascination  that,  because  its 

CS43 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

source  cannot  be  located,  cannot  disappear. 
And  his  eyes  thereupon  shone  with  vivid  grati- 
tude and  delight,  so  that  I  had  wondered:  how 
is  it  possible  that  this  beautiful  youth  has 
escaped  not  only  the  world's  adulation  but 
apparently  even  its  appreciation,  how  is  it 
possible?  And  this  seemed  little  short  of  a 
miracle  when  I  recalled  it,  just  as  it  had  seemed 
when  I  first  noticed  it;  and  that  this  miracle 
should  be  revealed  to  me  and  that  I  should  be, 
as  it  were,  a  necessary  condition  of  its  reve- 
lation seemed  like  a  second  miracle,  and  for  a 
while  I  felt  like  a  strange  person  in  a  mystery 
play,  the  passive  plaything  of  incalculable 
influences  and  forces;  —  at  any  rate  far  re- 
moved from  the  commonsense  world.  .  .  . 

To  this  world  I  shortly  returned,  however, 
led  by  my  mental  picture  of  Taddeo's  graceful 
silhouette  on  horseback,  and  here  I  reflected 
that  perhaps  the  sudden  simplicity  I  had 
assumed  upon  my  arrival  in  Freiburg  and  which 
had  tended,  as  I  knew,  toward  a  decided 
uglification  of  my  person,  (a  voluntary  but 
easy  transformation  that  I  had  heretofore 
regarded  as  a  heroic  rebellion  against  extrav- 
agant and  meretricious  weapons  in  the  sub- 
jection of  the  world  to  my  spirit,)  —  this 


PHILOSOPHY 


sacrifice  of  adornment,  it  now  seemed  to  me, 
might  at  least  be  nothing  more  than  a  pose, 
born  of  pride  and  conceit.  I  could  not  quite 
decide  about  this,  but  I  envisaged  and  admitted 
its  possibility.  And  when  I  found  myself 
regretting  my  Paris  clothes,  American  shoes 
and  so  forth,  and  thinking  of  my  mongrel 
breed  riding  habit  made  free  from  the  imagina- 
tion by  Fraulein  Schiitzenbogen  in  the  Ameisen- 
strasse  Freiburg,  I  quickly  left  my  white  balcony 
to  the  moon,  the  perfumed  night  and  my 
degenerating  mood,  and  re-entered  the  region 
of  artificial  light,  both  physical  and  spiritual. 


£56] 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 


A 


FEW  days  after  this  adventure  the  Seminar 
met,  and  as  I  let  myself  in  with  my  rattling 
key,  my  eyes  were  already  fixed  upon  the 
place  that  my  new  friend  occupied,  and  were 
ready  to  greet  him.  They  found  him  there, 
and  he  rose  and  bowed,  but  his  bow  was  akin 
to  the  inhuman  one  inspired  by  the  military 
spirit  that  presided  over  the  manners  of  his 
co-students.  Was  this  possible,  and  really 
happening,  I  wondered.  —  Annoyance,  resent- 
ment, disappointment  and  amazement  arose 
within  me.  It  seemed  to  me,  in  fact,  that  the 
man  seated  opposite  was  a  different  being  from 
the  youth  I  had  known,  and  I  could  not  succeed 
in  merging  the  two  into  one.  And  while  the 
"tiichtiger  junger  Mann"  was  reading  his 
paper  on  some  points  of  Hegelian  logic,  I  again 
went  over  our  previous  intercourse  in  my 
mind,  in  order  to  find  out  whether  by  dint  of 
thinking  of  him  I  had  perhaps  transformed 
him  into  a  different  person,  and  confounding 
the  reality  with  my  creation  was  now  expecting 
responses  from  the  latter.  But  though  this 


PHILOSOPHY 


was  a  habit  from  which  I  suffered,  and  no 
more  than  I  should  have  expected  of  myself 
under  ordinary  circumstances,  in  the  present 
case  I  absolved  myself  with  certainty.  For  it 
was  a  distinguishing  feature  of  this  picturesque 
youth  that  he  invited  no  romantifying  or 
intensifying  on  the  part  of  the  imagination,  — 
somehow  his  personality  seemed  already  to 
have  been  re-fashioned  by  artistry.  Yet,  if  I 
had  not  tinkered  with  him,  and  had  not  failed 
to  understand  him  before  this,  as  the  warmth 
of  my  interest  evidenced,  there  remained  as 
the  only  other  possibility,  I  thought,  the  one 
that  his  present  attitude  must  contain  some 
new  element  that  eluded  me.  This  intolerable 
idea  took  form  in  a  vision  of  my  portrait  fading 
slowly  into  a  half-obliterated  fresco,  tanta- 
lizing in  its  incompleteness  and  frighteningly 
threatening  to  entirely  disappear,  and  all  be- 
cause of  some  denseness  on  my  part.  .  .  . 

Until  finally,  after  ages,  the  sitting  reached 
its  end,  the  Master  hurried  off  and  in  groups 
of  two  and  three  the  students  departed.  When 
I  saw  that  Taddeo  too  was  about  to  leave  I 
hastened  to  detain  him  with  some  remark 
imitating  in  tone  the  impersonal  military.  He 
bowed,  (again  the  hateful  bow,)  and  returned 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

to  his  seat,  and  while  the  remaining  students 
were  arranging  their  lockers  we  took  up  our 
papers  and  books.  After  all  had  left  with  more 
bows  and  "Guten  Abend's",  and  we  were  alone, 
and  while  I  was  still  deciding  what  to  say  to 
clear  the  darkness,  he,  putting  aside  his  book 
and  leaning  across  the  table,  said  to  me: 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  do  this,  and  to 
let  me  have  a  word  with  you,  but  you  must 


not." 


"But  why,  how  do  you  mean?"  I  replied, 
"What  must  I  not?" 

Taddeo  smiled  in  a  troubled  manner  as  he 
answered:  "You  must  not  be  nice  to  your 
poor  Kommilitonen;  we  are  not  used  to  it 
and  some  of  us  will  not  know  how  to  take  it, 
and  others  will  not  understand,  and  there  will 
be  many  complications." 

"May  'studierende  Damen'  then  have  no 
friends?"  I  asked. 

"Friends,"  he  said  gently,  and  his  eyes 
lighted,  "Yes,  friends  they  may  have,  if  they 
will,  but  the  friend  must  be  separate  from  the 
Kommilitone." 

And  his  eyes  refilled  with  worry,  and  as  I 
looked  at  him  in  sceptical  and  puzzled  amaze- 
ment, they  seemed  to  send  out  a  dired:  appeal 

CS93 


PHILOSOPHY 


imploring  mine  to  understand  and  share  his 
viewpoint,  and  I  suddenly  understood  that 
this  advice  masquerading  as  fraternal  was 
really  an  extremely  youthful  and  individual 
conception  of  our  especial  relationship,  and 
although  I  could  not  divine  its  specific  origin, 
he  with  his  pleading  eyes  seemed  too  sensitive 
and  delicate  a  spirit  to  be  touched  without 
injury  by  the  instruments  of  conversion  that 
common  sense  afforded.  So  I  found  myself 
replying: 

"No,  I  can't  agree  with  you,  in  fad  I  know 
you're  mistaken.  There  is  nothing  in  the 
relationship  of  fellow  students  to  preclude  the 
possibility  of  at  least  good  fellowship  within 
the  University  walls.  —  But  if  you  feel  the  way 
you  do  about  it,  I  mean,  if  you  think  as  you 
say  you  do;  well,  yes,  why  can't  we  be  friends; 
you  did  befriend  me  and  rescue  me  a  few  days 
ago  you  know,  why  can  you  not  now  befriend 
me  and  rescue  me  from  loneliness?"  I  made 
this  unexpected  speech  (unexpected  by  myself) 
because  it  was  what  I  felt  at  the  moment  or 
perhaps  only  what  I  wanted  to  feel;  and  the 
consciousness  of  the  unconventionality  not  so 
much  of  the  speech  as  of  the  feeling  that 
prompted  and  informed  it  killed  the  note  of 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

gaiety  that  was  to  keep  it  from  sounding  intense 
and  drove  the  blood  to  my  face,  until  I  got  a 
reply  with  an  answering  flush  and  an  answer- 
ing intensity. 

"You  too  are  lonely?  .  .  .  Yes,  you  are 
right,  I  am  lonely,  but  I  have  always  been 
lonely.  You  are  indeed  kind  beyond  thanks, 
but  from  my  heart  I  thank  you."  .  .  . 

Thus  Taddeo  and  I  became  friends  without 
first  having  been  friendly  Kommilitonen,  and 
he  never  again  appeared  to  me  as  a  pictorial 
abstraction  in  living  form,  or  even  as  a  per- 
sonality whose  essence  one  could  successfully 
compress  into  art,  for  he  was  now  once  and  for 
all  an  individual  with  all  the  marks  of  life  — 
growth  and  becoming — ,  and  he  was  con- 
stantly changing  from  an  entity  as  distant  as 
the  thoughts  he  was  uttering  to  one  as  close 
as  the  look  his  eyes  sent  to  mine,  or  from  one 
as  large  as  the  boundaries  of  the  vision  he  dis- 
closed to  one  contracted  into  some  intimate 
act  or  trait  that  I  could  entirely  grasp  and 
completely  share. 


PHILOSOPHY 


B 


lEFORE  I  knew  Taddeo  I  had  seen  him 
sketching  in  various  parts  of  the  town  and 
usually  surrounded  by  schoolboys  and  other 
persons  with  time  and  eyes  for  the  unusual. 
And  Freiburg  was  indeed  a  most  sketchable 
place,  full  of  picturesque  details  and  shining 
with  all  kinds  of  attractive  lights  and  shades. 
And  it  was  also  a  liveable  town,  I  found;  one 
so  easily  took  possession  of  its  simple  contours 
and  its  compact  little  body  and  one  moved  so 
smoothly  through  its  arteries.  Chief  among 
these  was  of  course  the  Kaiserstrasse:  the  im- 
perial street  which  proclaimed  its  importance 
not  only  by  its  name  but  by  the  well-preserved 
antiquity  of  the  modest  houses  that  flanked 
it  and  by  its  relative  width  and  length.  And 
its  almost  three  quarters  of  a  mile  was  intro- 
duced at  one  end  by  a  gateway  with  a  medi- 
aeval tower  freshly  painted  in  vivid  greens  and 
blues,  was  punctuated  in  the  middle  by  an 
ancient  fountain,  and  was  stopped  at  the 
other  end  by  another  tall  gateway,  so  that  it 
had  a  delightful  completeness,  like  a  long  but 

£623 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

simple  sentence.  And  the  fresh  paint  of  its 
old  houses,  the  brightness  of  the  flowers  on 
their  window-ledges  and  the  uninterrupted 
line  of  shining  shop-windows  and  the  new 
yellow  and  green  trolley  cars  that  ran  gaily 
up  and  down  its  cobbled  back,  all  attested  to 
the  imperial  street's  business  vitality  and  to 
the  modernity  of  its  ancient  body. 

The  Kaiserstrasse's  little  tributary  streets 
were  more  reposeful  than  itself;  indeed,  they 
gave  the  impression  of  walking  away  from 
their  bustling  neighbour  rather  than  of  leading 
into  it,  and  their  real  objective  seemed  to  be 
some  quaint  and  silent  square  adorned  with  a 
lonely  statue  of  a  more  or  less  famous  son  of 
Freiburg,  or  else  some  dead  little  street  whose 
uses  no  one  could  infer  from  its  appearance. 

To  this  there  was  one  glorious  exception: 
the  short  Miinstergasse,  leading  to  the  most 
alive  and  most  immortal  of  Freiburg's  monu- 
ments, to  its  cathedral.  This  lovely  and  very 
feminine  cathedral  of  Freiburg  was  of  glowing 
brown  stone  with  a  warm  red  tinge,  and  al- 
though she  rose  abruptly  from  the  centre  of 
her  square,  as  they  do  in  German  and  French 
Gothic  cathedral  families,  she  nevertheless 
seemed  to  retain  her  "Zusammengehorigkeit" 


PHILOSOPHY 


with  the  surroundings  from  which  she  sprang, 
and  she  surveyed  her  immediate  circle  of 
neighbours,  (if  a  square  may  for  once  be  called 
a  circle,)  without  that  haughtiness  and  scornful 
aloofness  which  also  is  a  characteristic  way  of 
cathedrals.  Her  one  aspiring  steeple  indeed 
looked  down  upon  the  fair  city  to  which  it 
owed  its  birth  and  over  and  beyond  it,  and 
perhaps  it  felt  more  akin  to  the  surrounding 
hills  of  impenetrable  green  and  to  the  white 
clouds  floating  above  —  how  indeed  could  it 
be  otherwise — ,  but  the  comfortable  body 
of  the  Miinster  settled  familiarly  into  its 
cobbled  soil  and  recognised  the  smaller  and 
less  pretentious  contemporaries  living  on  her 
square  without  a  shade  of  snobbery. 

Thus  she  impressed  one  as  the  heart  of 
her  city  rather  than  its  show  piece.  When  her 
musical  bells  rang  out,  as  consistent  with  her 
sympathetic  character  they  for  one  reason  or 
another  did  most  of  the  time,  she  seemed  a 
materialized  communal  pulse  throbbing  in 
sympathy  with  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  all 
citizens.  And  so  it  was  but  fitting  that  her 
square  should  serve  as  market  place  and  that 
twice  or  three  times  a  week  it  should  be  the 
setting  of  the  most  brilliant  scene  of  the  town. 

£64  3 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

On  these  occasions  her  red-brown  body  pressed 
upon  by  the  white  awnings  of  the  market- 
stands,  and  the  great  masses  of  multi-coloured 
vegetables  and  fruits,  and  the  long  rows  of 
brightly  painted  pottery  and  porcelain,  and 
the  gay  costumes  of  the  peasants,  all  shone 
upon  by  a  brilliant  sun  in  a  deep  blue  sky, 
lent  to  this  mercantile  transaction  a  picturesque 
and  coloristic  completeness  which  removed  it, 
for  the  eye  at  least,  from  the  sphere  of  the  real 
to  that  of  art. 

I  saw  Taddeo  sketching  this  scene  one  day 
soon  after  we  had  become  acquainted.  He 
was  seated  in  front  of  the  window  of  the  ecclesi- 
astical supplies  shop  which  was  located  in  an 
ancient  Gothic  house  on  the  right-hand  corner 
of  the  square.  He  was  working  in  oils,  and 
wore  a  painting  apron  of  rich  blue  with  a  low, 
soft  collar  that  became  him  wonderfully.  His 
glowing  cream  skin  seemed  to  reflect:  the 
golden  crosses  and  mitres  that  formed  his 
immediate  background  and  that  were  exhibited 
against  a  curtain  of  blue  silk,  so  that  all  of 
them  together  composed  a  picture  of  blue  and 
gold.  And  his  features,  I  noticed,  were  com- 
pressed into  an  expression  of  intense  concen- 
tration, the  melancholy  had  fled  from  his  eyes 


PHILOSOPHT 


as  they  glanced  sharply  from  canvas  to  market, 
the  curves  of  his  lips  had  straightened  into  a 
tight  line,  his  nostrils  were  slightly  distended 
and  there  was  a  deep  furrow  between  his  eyes. 
I  stopped  unseen  to  look  at  him,  and  I  re- 
flected: This  is  a  new  Taddeo;  not  Taddeo 
the  spectator,  but  Taddeo  the  worker,  or  per- 
haps even  Taddeo  the  tool  of  his  talent.  —  And 
somehow  Taddeo  the  spectator  to  my  sense 
was  a  more  alive  and  complete  being  than  this 
energetic  producer  into  whose  semblance  he 
seemed  to  me  to  have  shrunk. 

The  interior  of  the  cathedral  became  one 
of  our  favourite  retreats.  Like  the  exterior 
it  was  warm,  glowing  and  friendly  in  spite  of 
its  imposing  size  and  height.  The  light  that 
entered  through  wonderful  old  stained  glass 
would  have  transformed  even  the  common- 
place into  beauty;  but  the  pictures  and  marbles, 
tapestries  and  carvings  that  crowded  the 
church  were  themselves  of  great  charm  and 
of  highly  decorative  quality,  and  belonging, 
as  for  the  most  part  they  did,  to  one  and  the 
same  period,  they  blended  into  unity,  and  the 
graceful  Church  was  as  reposeful  and  har- 
monious as  a  whole  as  it  was  varied  and  arrest- 
ing in  detail. 
£663 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

Taddeo  and  I  took  refuge  here  one  day  from 
a  violent  storm,  and  seated  in  the  almost 
deserted  nave,  so  dark  that  only  the  stained 
glass  and  the  dim  candles  on  the  altars  and  the 
fierce  lightning  broke  the  night,  he,  with  lips 
close  to  my  ear  in  order  not  to  disturb  the  few 
muttering  worshippers  around  us,  whispered 
to  me  the  meagre  facts  of  his  history.  I  learned 
that  his  father,  who  belonged  to  a  family  of 
Portuguese-Dutch  descent,  had  when  a  lad 
left  his  uncongenial  German  home,  had  some 
time  after  settled  in  Italy,  established  himself 
in  business,  prospered  and  become  wealthy; 
that  in  middle  age  he  had  married,  and  that  a 
few  years  after  Taddeo's  birth,  the  mother 
having  died,  Taddeo  and  his  father  had  left 
Rome  for  Florence.  Taddeo  described  his 
father  as  a  handsome  man,  large  and  slow 
moving,  with  an  austere  and  inflexible  manner, 
and  as  a  cold  and  indifferent  and  mostly  absent 
parent.  I  further  learned  that  when  Taddeo 
was  seventeen  and  had  passed  through  a  series 
of  governesses  and  tutors,  the  father  died  and 
Taddeo  found  himself  independent  in  all  ways, 
whereupon  he  left  Florence  and  with  a  tutor 
travelled  about  the  Continent  for  a  year,  lived 
in  England  for  a  year,  and  returning  to  Florence 

C67H 


PHILOSOPHY 


prepared  for  the  University.  At  twenty-one 
he  betook  himself  to  Paris  where  he  painted 
for  several  years.  During  this  time  he  found 
that  the  theory  of  art  interested  him,  and 
having  learned  something  of  the  technique  of 
drawing,  painting  and  modelling,  —  thus  find- 
ing his  equipment  for  a  study  of  aesthetics 
favourable  on  the  side  of  practice,  —  he  de- 
cided to  attend  to  his  philosophical  education. 
He  determined  to  begin  on  the  broadest  basis 
with  the  study  of  epistemology  and  meta- 
physics and  to  proceed  thence  to  psychology 
and  what  there  was  of  positive  aesthetic  theory. 

These  future  aspirations  of  Taddeo  I  was 
acquainted  with  from  previous  conversations; 
but  his  history  was  new  to  me  and  left  me 
amazed.  Therefore,  when  he  had  ended  in  a 
kind  of  breathless  haste  as  if  to  get  over  with 
it,  and  was  about  to  plunge  once  more  into  the 
future,  I  interrupted  him: 

"But  Taddeo,"  I  whispered,  "your  relatives, 
where  are  they,  and  your  mother,  tell  me  about 
her/'  I  could  not  see  Taddeo's  expression  in 
the  obscurity,  and  a  moment  after  I  was  thank- 
ful that  it  was  hidden,  when  his  voice  broken 
with  emotion  answered : 

"I  know  nothing,  nothing  of  my  mother; 
C683 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

truly,  I  never  had  a  mother,  not  even  a  mother 
to  think  of;  for  she  has  been  made  a  mystery 
to  me  by  my  father,  and  that  is  not  what  a 
mother  should  be.  And  I  have  no  sister,  no 
brother,  no  relatives,  no  memories  of  anyone 
I  love.  I  am  truly  alone  in  the  world;  quite 
completely  alone,  —  even  in  spirit." 

I  thought  of  the  dozens  of  painted  and  carved 
madonnas  a  few  steps  from  us  in  the  obscurity 
of  their  niches,  holding  in  their  arms  that 
other  Jewish  boy,  who  needed  their  love  so 
little.  And  I  wished  with  all  the  ardour  of 
my  youth  that  I  too  were  a  mother  and  might 
take  into  comforting  arms  this  maltreated 
soul,  who  now  seemed  but  a  lonely  and  pathetic 
boy.  I  caught  Taddeo's  hand  in  mine  and 
pressed  it,  and  he  raised  our  two  clasped  hands 
to  his  heart,  and  for  a  moment  I  could  feel  his 
heart  palpitating  its  sense  of  injustice.  With 
a  feeling  of  horrible  oppression,  and  on  the 
verge  of  tears,  I  rose  abruptly  and  we  left  the 
church,  and  in  the  activities  involved  in  our 
encounter  with  the  still  raging  storm  we  found 
relief  from  stress  of  feeling. 

Of  course  I  thought  a  great  deal  about 
Taddeo's  history.  If  his  parentage  was  indeed 
part  Italian,  it  explained  many  things,  I  thought. 

C693 


PHILOSOPHY 


His  grace,  his  agile  and  supple  body,  his  won- 
derfully sweet  smile,  the  charm  of  his  voice, 
and  the  occasional  abandon  of  his  gestures. 
But  on  the  other  hand  nothing  was  less  Italian 
than  his  reserve,  his  self-control,  his  sensitive- 
ness, his  melancholy,  and  his  detachment  from 
the  world,  and  his  undramatic  inwardness.  It 
was  difficult  to  think  of  Taddeo  in  the  terms 
of  nationality;  he  impinged  rather  as  an 
individual  of  a  race  historically  vague  and 
psychologically  broad  but  sharply  defined,  and 
I  felt  that  had  I  never  heard  of  the  Jewish  race 
and  its  destinies  I  should,  from  knowing  Taddeo, 
have  been  able  to  approximately  reconstruct 
such  a  race,  as  biologists  reconstruct  organisms 
upon  the  basis  of  one  bone.  And  it  may  have 
been  for  this  reason  that  acquaintance  with 
the  outward  circumstances  of  his  life  added 
nothing  to  my  feeling  of  acquaintance  with 
him.  As  soon  as  I  had  known  him  and 
had  spoken  with  him,  and  we  had  exchanged 
information  about  our  immediate  purposes, 
though  about  nothing  else,  I  felt  as  intimately 
at  home  with  him  as  I  did  many  weeks  later 
when  together  we  shared  half  our  days  and 
all  our  thoughts.  As  in  entering  a  reception 
chamber  of  a  house  whose  exterior  pleases 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

profoundly,  and  finding  it  equally  attuned  to 
the  taste,  one  may,  without  knowing  other 
rooms  or  their  objects,  yet  feel  certain  that 
whatever  they  reveal  will  be  sympathetic,  so 
I  felt  that  no  further  revelations  of  Taddeo's 
character  were  needed  to  add  to  my  feeling  of 
intimacy  and  harmony  with  him. 


PHILOSOPHY 


was  growing  into  summer,  the 
country  roads  on  which  the  four  of  us  travelled 
grew  dusty  and  hot  under  the  June  sun,  and 
we  often  left  our  horses  in  the  stable  and  spent 
our  mornings  in  the  forest.  Our  programme  was 
to  hunt  for  and  take  possession  of  some  at- 
tractive spot  in  the  cool  heart  of  the  woods, 
and  there  to  talk,  to  read,  to  sketch  or  to  dream. 

"Taddeo,"  I  said  to  him  one  morning  as  we 
sat  reading,  propped  up  against  a  mossy  mound, 
and  closed  in  on  all  sides  by  brown  pine  trunks 
splashed  with  dancing  sunlight,  and  canopied 
by  their  heavy,  dark  branches,  "how  can  any- 
one in  the  whole  world  not  living  as  we  are  be 
content?" 

"I  know  how,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  "but 
I  shan't  tell  you." 

"Why,"  I  asked,  "shan't  you  tell  me  if  you 
really  know,  Sphinx  or  God?" 

"Because  you  too  ought  to  know;  you  ought 
to  trouble  to  put  yourself  in  the  place  of  others 
and  wondering  about  their  feelings  toward 
life,  succeed  in  understanding  how  they  differ 
from  yours." 


AN    AUrOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

"But  surely  you  don't  fancy  that  I  don't,  I 
who  do  little  else  than  watch  and  wonder;  by 
the  way,  are  you  scolding  me?"  (What  I 
thought  was:  how  delightful  that  he  should 
be  scolding  me,  he  must  like  me  immensely  to 
do  it  and  must  feel  as  completely  at  home  with 
me  as  I  with  him.) 

"It  is  only,"  replied  Taddeo  flushing  a  little 
but  smiling,  "that  I  know  that  whatever  I  may 
say  is  already  somewhere  in  your  mind,  and 
because  it  makes  me  so  happy  to  hear  you 
express  the  very  thoughts  I  divined.  It  is  so 
charming  that  it  should  be  thus,  that  you  must 
agree  to  forgive  me,  and  must  tell  me  right 
away  whom  you  watch  and  what  you  wonder." 

"Well,"  I  began  aggressively,  throwing  my 
book  from  me  and  folding  my  hands  in  my  lap 
and  frowning  and  looking  into  undistracting 
space,  —  all  this  to  assist  concentration,  be- 
cause at  the  moment  my  natural  inclination 
was,  relaxed,  to  watch  the  beautiful  Taddeo 
and  the  beautiful  tree-trunks  and  the  beautiful 
dance  of  the  sunlight  and  basking  in  their 
beauty  to  feel  like  a  cat  looks  as  though  it  felt 
when  lying  in  the  sun,  —  "there's  Marie,  my 
chambermaid:  elderly-young,  plain,  stout,  red- 
faced,  hot,  industrious,  gentle  and  amiable. 


PHILOSOPHY 


For  her,  poor  girl,  life  must  be  hard  work,  (for 
she's  awfully  hard  worked,)  with  the  excite- 
ments incident  to  the  variations  of  boarding 
house  history  to  make  it  bearable  in  unthink- 
ing moments,  and  with  the  distant  lure  of  the 
dramatic  quality  of  eventual  marriage  to 
round  it  out  here  below;  and  all  around  and 
beyond,  penetrating  and  suffusing  life  with 
the  perfume  of  justice,  those  vague  promises 
of  the  Church:  reunion  with  friends  and  life 
eternal  in  happiness  and  heaven." 

"Well?"    saidTaddeo. 

"Well,  yes,"  I  replied,  "I  can  understand 
her  in  a  fashion,  for  crude  religious  notions  are 
the  philosophy  of  the  illiterate;  but  I  never- 
theless feel  awfully  sorry  for  her.  —  Then  there 
is  Johan,  the  boots.  In  his  case,  I  fancy  that 
great  quantities  of  beer  and  an  absence  of  any 
rudiments  of  intelligence  prevent  him  from 
looking  farther  than  a  few  miles  in  space  and 
a  few  months  in  time.  For  him  the  spiritual 
food  necessary  to  the  continuance  of  bare  life, 
must,  I  imagine,  consist  in  the  consciousness 
that  he  is  getting  along  somehow  through  life, 
and  has  a  certain  value  measured  by  the  amount 
of  his  salary."  . 

"Well?"  saidTaddeo. 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

"Well,  I'm  frightfully  sorry  for  him,  poor 
dazed  idiot.  —  Then  there's  the  Rauscher 
family;  they  who  keep  the  Pension.  They  in 
truth  are  extraordinary,  and  what  their  sub- 
stitute for  a  philosophic  outlook  can  be  I  can't 
imagine,  for  they  seem  to  run  the  Pension  all 
the  time  and  never  to  do  anything  else.  Sober, 
industrious,  hardworking,  married,  disillusioned 
and  normally  intelligent,  can  it  be  that  their 
encouragement  lies  in  bringing  into  existence  and 
rearing  children  to  continue  the  hard  struggle  for 
an  existence  whose  value  one  can't  discover?" 

"How  then?"  said  Taddeo. 

"Well,  then,"  I  replied,  "I  feel  very  sorry 
for  them.  —  As  for  the  others,  the  Pension 
guests,  bridge-playing  parents  of  foreign  boys 
at  school  here,  embroidering  spinsters,  retired 
officers  and  their  wives,  always  taking  walks 
or  preparing  to,  —  I  don't  know  them,  and 
their  worlds  so  completely  baffle  me  that  I 
cannot  pidlure  them  as  anything  but  quite 
empty  stretches,  with  walking,  bridging  and 
embroidering  as  methods  of  consuming  empty 


time." 


"As  you  do  not  know  them,  your  imagina- 
tion had  nothing  to  feed  on  and  gave  out," 
remarked  Taddeo;  "well?" 

C753 


PHILOSOPHY 


"Well,  perhaps,"  I  said.  "But  I'm  sorry 
for  them,  and  so  am  I  for  Frau  Fischer  who 
brushes  my  hair  and  Frl.  Schiitzenbogen  who 
fixes  my  clothes,  and  for  the  pinched  verger 
at  the  Cathedral  and  the  bloated  janitor  at  the 
University  and  for  most  of  the  totally  un- 
known inhabitants  of  Freiburg  who  pass  me 
on  the  streets.  And  in  proportion  as  I  have 
no  data  to  go  on,  by  which  to  understand  them, 
my  pity  for  them  increases.  —  I've  finished 
and  you  can't  say  that  I  haven't  thought  about 
them." 

"And  indeed  you  have  also  answered  your- 
self in  your  reflections,  and  if  you  do  not  read 
your  answer  it  is  because  your  misdirected 
pity  obscures  your  vision,"  said  Taddeo. 

"But  how,"  I  asked,  "have  I  answered  my 
question  of  how  they  can  be  content  with  the 
little  they  get  from  life  when  opportunities 
such  as  we  are  enjoying  lie  before  their  eyes?" 

"Because,"  said  Taddeo,  "contentment  de- 
pends on  the  relation  between  desires  and 
satisfactions,  and  although  their  satisfactions 
as  you  suppose  them  to  be  may  not  cover  their 
demands,  and;  although  all  these  people  may 
indeed  not  be  content  at  all,  —  never  could 
contentment  result  from  satisfactions  of  desires 

£763 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

they  do  not  entertain,  is  it  not  true?  And 
neither  Marie  nor  Johan  nor  Family  Rauscher 
nor  the  officers  or  spinsters  or  coiffeuse  demand 
from  life  the  opportunity  to  study  philosophy 
every  day.  So  that  the  reason  why  discontent 
upon  seeing  our  lot  does  not  possess  them  is 
that  they  do  not  desire  it.  This  is  the  answer 
of  the  Sphinx;  what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"Certainly  it  is  of  an  impressive  simplicity," 
I  answered,  "and  reflecting  that  nothing  in 
the  universe  is  other  than  infinitely  complex, 
excepting  the  concepts  formed  by  man  to  over- 
come this  inconvenient  complexity,  you  will 
pardon  me  if  I  add  that  it  is  of  a  suspicious 
simplicity.  And  I  suggest  that,  admitting  that 
they  don't  desire  to  do  as  we  are  doing,  to 
inquire  and  know  and  choose,  but  prefer  their 
ready-made  satisfactions,  isn't  just  this  in- 
comprehensible and  pitiful?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so,"  Taddeo  said  earnestly, 
"but  in  that  case  we  pity  them  because  they 
do  not  desire  what  we  think  desirable  and  not 
because  they  have  not  what  we  desire.  It 
seems  important  to  distinguish  these  things, 
because  I  believe  that  the  difference  in  men's 
actual  desires  has  been  the  principle  of  social 
formation,  and  will  remain  so.  Never  would 

C773 


PHILOSOPHY 


this  curious  social  and  economic  structure  of 
ours  have  evolved  had  there  not  been  real 
fortuitous  variation  in  men's  inclinations  and 
their  resulting  demands  on  life.  —  So  that, 
although  I  do  not  believe  that  had  all  men 
equally  shared  the  desire  to  philosophize  they 
all  would  have  succeeded  in  doing  so,"  he  con- 
tinued smilingly,  "I  certainly  do  believe  that 
had  that  been  the  case,  you  and  I  would  never 
have  come  to  exist  as  students  of  philosophy." 
"No,"  I  remarked,  "that's  evident  enough; 


even  to  me." 


"And  it  is  because  social  reform  has  become 
sufficiently  enlightened  to  see  that  the  essential 
thing  is  not  the  giving  to  everyone  that  which 
to  some  self-appointed  judge  seems  better 
than  the  thing  they  have,  but  rather  helping 
everyone  to  desire  more  imaginatively,  that 
social  reform  is  beginning  to  be  effective. 
Whereas  to  pity  others  for  not  having  what 
they  do  not  wish,  and  to  give  it  to  them,  is 
blind  and  ineffectual." 

"Perhaps;"  I  said,  "but  the  chief  method 
of  educating  desire  is  to  offer,  if  not  new 
satisfactions,  —  which  I  admit  would  be  no 
satisfactions  if  they  satisfied  nothing,  —  at  least 
new  opportunities  to  test  these  satisfactions, 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

for  it  is  through  experiment  in  satisfactions  that 
desires  are  realized,  is  it  not?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "it  is;  but  if  such  a  pro- 
gramme were  honestly  carried  out,  it  would  be 
at  the  cost  of  sacrificing  all  fortuitous  individual 
differences  and  levelling  down  the  richness  of 
opportunity  that  nature  and  social  arrangement 
together  offer,  to  some  reasonable  standard  of 
our  own,  and  submitting  our  activities  to  the 
miserable  judgment  of  our  fellows  in  determin- 
ing whether  or  not  we  have  made  successful 
experiments  and  have  exhibited  proper  or  im- 
proper desires.  And  in  limiting  ourselves  to 
opportunities  dictated  by  some  more  or  less 
accidental  governing  power  of  our  equals,  — 
for  all  determining  is  delimiting,  —  I  believe 
that  what  we  might  lose  would  be  infinitely 
greater  than  what  we  should  gain." 

"Yet  you  certainly  believe  in  culture,  in  the 
control  of  nature;  where  then  would  you  limit 
our  attempt  to  determine  our  destinies?" 

"Let  me  answer  you  thus,"  he  said:  "a  long 
evolution  led  to  the  creation  of  man,  and  that 
means  that  a  process  in  which  man  had  no 
part  nevertheless  led  to  the  greatest  good  he 
can  conceive,  to  himself,  and  to  all  that  has 
since  developed  in  human  history  and  achieve- 

C79H 


PHILOSOPHY 


ment.  This  is  an  immensely  impressive  fadt, 
I  think,  and  seems  to  me  to  give  to  nature  the 
very  strong  position  of  mother  of  all  things, 
including  culture.  That  we  should  regulate  her 
in  so  far  as  we  understand  her,  I  certainly  do 
believe,  and  also  that  all  her  processes  that  have 
been  found  to  be  harmful  to  our  existence  should 
be  extirpated  or  controlled;  and  this  is  what 
nature's  gift  to  us,  culture  namely,  consists  in. 
But  in  so  far  as  no  one  has  completely  explained 
her  order,  I  also  believe  in  letting  nature  ex- 
periment in  her  own  haphazard  way,  to  put  it 
paradoxically,  for  she  appears  to  get  all  the  big 
results.  Indeed  were  we  thoroughly  to  realise 
an  ideal  of  completely  controlled  human  organ- 
ization based  on  the  knowledge  we  hold  at 
present,  we  should,  I  think,  be  behaving  like 
children  trying  to  play  God  with  forces  which, 
in  our  attempt  to  strangle  and  stuff  them  into 
hard  and  fast  forms,  might  well  escape  and 
destroy  us.  Do  you  know  Goethe's  'Zauber- 
lehrling'?  I  think  therewith  he  meant  some- 
thing of  the  sort.  — " 

"But  many  think,  Taddeo,  that  it  would  be 
preferable  for  the  human  species  to  commit 
suicide  in  a  noble  attempt  to  live  according  to 
their  own  ideals  than  to  continue  under  the 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

existing  conditions  so  unfavorable  to  the  happi- 
ness of  the  masses." 

"Oh,  but  I  do  not,  I  do  not,"  cried  Taddeo, 
"and  you  cannot,  for,  although  it  is  not  true  of 
the  individual,  it  is  true  of  the  race  that  where 
there  is  life  there  is  hope,  and  it  is  also  true 
that  as  we  watch  the  operations  of  nature  we 
are  constantly  learning  better  how  to  control 
conditions  by  eliminating  the  intolerable  ones, 
those  that  suffocate  the  life  force.  It  is  just 
because  I  believe  so  wholly  in  progress  through 
science,  which  is  the  knowledge  of  nature,  and 
alone  permits  us  to  vision  new  and  realizable 
ideals,  that  I  dread  to  see  nature  reduced  and 
relegated  into  limits  that  we  prescribe.  And 
I  see  no  future  life  for  the  humanity  that 
nature  begot  if  it  be  fed  by  man  alone  in  his 
present  state  of  ignorance.  And  I  believe  life  at 
the  expense  of  happiness  to  be  infinitely  superior 
to  no  life  at  all.  But  do  not  you  as  well?" 

"It's  hard  for  me  to  say,"  I  replied,  "be- 
cause to  live  is  to  learn  and  to  learn  is  happiness, 
so  just  to  be  living  is  to  be  in  some  measure 
happy." 

"Yes,  that  is  true;"  he  said,  and  after  a 
silence:  —  "even  for  those  who  don't  study 
philosophy  every  day?" 


PHILOSOPHY 


"Possibly,"  I  said. 

"Then  that  is  so  much  wisdom  gained,"  he 
remarked. 

"Perhaps,"  I  replied,  "though  I  don't  defi- 
nitely accept  all  you  have  said." 

"Who  am  I  that  you  should  accept  what  I  say 
unless  you  happen  to  feel  the  same,"  said  he. 

"I  do  feel  the  same,  but  my  mind  is  on  the 
tracks  of  evolution,  heredity  and  the  origin  of 
value,  and  before  I  have  run  down  the  prey 
and  have  them  before  me  clearly  in  their 
several  relationships,  I  sha'n't  know  whether 
our  intuitions  are  correct:  that's  simple." 

"Yes,"  said  Taddeo,  "and  when  you  have 
absolute  knowledge  of  everything  you  will 
share  it  with  me,  will  you  not?" 

"If  you  are  not  too  completely  filled  with 
unchanging  feelings  to  absorb  it,"  I  replied. 

"Feelings  expand  one's  nature,  and  thoughts 
contract  it,  have  you  not  noticed  this,"  Taddeo 
rejoined,  looking  me  in  the  eye,  "  and  so  I  shall 
always  be  ready  to  accept  whatever  you  may 
offer  me."  I  made  no  answer.  "In  the  mean- 
time," he  continued,  "you  will  read  Rickert's 
'historische  Weltanschauung  '-book  and  perhaps 
Hegel's  'Philosophy  of  History'  very  thoroughly, 
and  in  so  doing  be  happy." 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

"But  you  too,"  I  said,  "though  you  won't 
read  Rickert's  'historische  Weltanschauung'- 
book  nor  Hegel,  having  already  made  up  your 
mind  without  them,  are  not  unhappy;  admit 
it,  Taddeo." 

"I  have  never  been  so  happy  before,  because 
I  have  never  been  at  all  happy  before,  and  I 
am  —  now,"  he  replied,  and  he  smiled  so 
sweetly  and  so  simply  and  so  entirely  for  me, 
that  I  felt  like  crying. 

"And  all  because  we  are  leisurely  students 
of  life  and  of  the  universe,"  I  said,  (however,) 
as  I  tossed  Rickert  in  the  air  before  opening 
him  at  page  253  which  marked  one  quarter  of 
the  road  to  the  depths  of  him.  — 


£833 


PHILOSOPHY 


w 


E  discovered  one  day  that  we  had  a  long- 
ing for  a  picnic,  and  as  this  seemed  to  both  of  us 
the  most  harmless  form  that  rebellion  against 
the  regular  could  possibly  take,  —  although  we 
were  aware,  of  course,  that  from  some  view- 
points and  in  some  places  every  departure  from 
the  regular  was  judged  reprehensible,  —  we 
decided  not  to  throttle  this  desire,  but  as  far 
as  circumstances  permitted,  to  realize  it.  This, 
indeed,  was  little  enough.  A  picnic  in  a  posi- 
tive sense,  —  sitting  on  damp  ground,  eating 
delicious  cold  dishes  in  a  messy  way,  trying 
and  occasionally  managing  to  forget  where 
one  was,  —  such  a  picnic  was  not  to  be  thought 
of,  because  the  exigencies  of  our  situation  de- 
manded that  our  picnic  meal  should  be  break- 
fast, and  an  enjoyable  cold  breakfast  is  a 
contradiction  in  terms.  So  that  we  had  to 
content  ourselves  with  a  negative  and  formal 
picnic,  —  one  whose  essence  consisted  in  its  not 
being  the  usual  daily  affair. 

Accordingly,  very  early  one    morning  —  not 
much     after    six    o'clock  —  we    met    on    the 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

Kaiserstrasse  and  boarded  the  green  and  white 
tram  for  Giintersthal.  We  were  the  only 
passengers  on  this  eledtric  early  bird,  and  in 
the  young  summer  morning  we  flew  through  the 
slumbering  town,  wrapt  in  golden  haze,  with  her 
noisy  life  smothered  within  her,  and  flew  across 
the  open  country,  whose  life  the  sun  had  long 
before  awakened  to  song,  and  out  to  the 
village  of  Giintersthal,  where  humanity  as  well 
was  awake,  but  was  still  under  the  calming 
spell  of  the  quiet  night,  rendering  the  rhythm 
of  life  elegiac. 

Here  we  alighted  and  started  to  walk  to  our 
destination,  to  Kyburg  and  to  breakfast; 
Taddeo  with  his  light  sketching  paraphernalia 
under  his  arm,  and  I  with  a  few  books  under 
mine.  As  we  walked  along  the  road  the  haze 
lifted  gradually  and  mounting  to  the  hills  above 
left  the  valley  through  which  the  "Landstrasse" 
led  bright  as  a  fresh  canvas  of  a  colour-loving 
painter.  The  sharp  breezes,  that  had  driven 
the  gold  from  the  air,  blew  the  cherries  about 
a  little  in  the  trees  by  the  side  of  the  road,  and 
the  wheat  fields  beyond  waved  properly,  and 
the  poppies  danced  in  the  meadows  in  the  way 
they  should,  and  the  trees  climbing  up  the  hills 
bowed  gravely  every  now  and  then  as  was 


PHILOSOPHY 


desirable.  Farmers  —  men  and  women  —  passed 
on  their  way  to  the  town  beside  carts  gay  with 
fruits  and  vegetables  of  the  soil,  and  the  strap- 
ping horses,  classic  oxen,  the  jingle  of  their 
trappings,  the  colour  and  lines  of  the  peasants' 
clothes,  their  bronzed  faces,  and  the  sharp 
outlines  of  their  lean  bodies  made  a  picture  so 
enchanting  that  the  mind  was  seduced  to 
accept  it  not  only  at  its  face  value  but,  oh 
mockery!  as  a  fair  symbol  of  the  life  it  signified. 
(I  had  not  then  read  much  about  the  condition 
of  agricultural  classes  in  Germany.)  The  rap- 
ture I  felt  in  the  intimacy  with  this  beautiful 
scene,  and  my  attempt  to  enjoy  it  to  the  full 
capacity  of  all  my  senses  shone  in  my  eyes,  I 
suppose,  for  Taddeo  often  glanced  at  me  and 
his  eyes  seemed  to  kindle  from  the  light  in  mine. 
It  was  profoundly  sweet  to  feel  the  closeness  of 
another  spirit  nourishing  itself  on  the  same  mir- 
acles of  colour,  life  and  form,  thrilling  with  the 
same  intense  sense  of  life  at  the  touch  of  beauty. 
Accompanied  by  the  breezes  and  the  music 
of  their  motion,  and  by  unceasing  choruses  of 
chirruping  crickets  and  by  what  we  thought 
might  be  the  song  of  larks,  we  reached  Kyburg, 
the  restaurant  far-famed  in  Breisgau  for  an 
unequalled  "cuisine."  Here,  on  a  red-table- 
£86  ] 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

clothed  table  in  a  large  and  at  this  early  hour 
deserted  garden,  we  breakfasted  off  coffee  and 
rolls,  country  butter  and  fresh  eggs  and  honey 
manufactured  by  the  bee,  and  as  we  both  were 
hungry  beyond  the  calculations  of  those  who 
established  the  measure  of  a  continental  break- 
fast I  initiated  Taddeo  into  the  charms  of 
beefsteak  and  potatoes  at  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning. 

"I  am  having  a  good  time,"  I  remarked  to 
Taddeo. 

"It  is  a  strange  expression,"  he  said,  "but 
can  one  then  not  also  say  'I  am  having  a  beau- 
tiful time'?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "but  it  does  not  mean 
what  you  mean;  *  beautiful'  is  here  simply  a 
variant  of  good." 

"It  is  much  debased  then,"  said  he,  "and 
it  is  a  pity  one  cannot  really  say  it,"  —  Taddeo 
gave  a  comprehensive,  enraptured  glance  about 
him,  and  then  let  his  eyes  rest  on  me,  —  "  for 
good,  what  does  it  mean  but  satisfying  and  con- 
tenting, —  a  time  that  fulfils  one's  wishes;  but 
a  beautiful  time  would  be  a  time  that  felt  like 
a  new  and  thrilling  experience  in  which  one 
remembers  no  longer  oneself,  nor  one's  wishes 
and  their  fate,  but  is  carried  without  will  by  a 


PHILOSOPHY 


sort  of  flood  of  harmony  —  ;  it  is  really  a  pity 
one  cannot  say  it,  because  I  am  having  a  beau- 
tiful time." 

The  tenderness  in  Taddeo's  eyes  was  fading 
into  their  habitual  melancholy  once  more. 
"Come  back,  Taddeo,"  I  said  in  a  tone  in 
which  one  might  challenge  the  attention  of  one 
about  to  depart,  "come  back  from  being  carried 
about  in  your  flood  of  harmony."  (For  raillery 
was  the  only  means  I  knew  of  to  save  him  from 
the  very  real  flood  of  sadness  that  had  its  ebb 
and  flow,  but  seemed  always  ready  to  engulf;  — 
at  any  rate,  it  was  the  only  method  I  knew  how 
to  handle  without  exposing  my  own  mood  to 
the  same  submersion.) 

"I  am  away,"  said  Taddeo,  smiling,  "be- 
cause I  am  not  yet  used  to  a  beautiful  time." 

"And  anyway,"  I  continued,  "I  don't  agree 
with  you  —  about  the  good  being  a  debased 
form  of  the  beautiful.  I  shouldn't  be  at  all 
surprised  if  the  exact  opposite  turned  out  to  be 
true.  Of  course  you  and  I  are  both  in  Freiburg, 
Germany,  to  find  out  this  very  thing,  among 
others,  and  neither  one  of  us  has  found  it  out 
yet.  Don't  you  feel,  Taddeo,  as  if  you  ought 
to  walk  through  life  on  tiptoe  until  you  knew 
all  these  things  ? " 
C88H 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

"No,"  replied  Taddeo,  "at  least,  not  for  that 
reason;  —  but  I  do  sometimes  feel  that  almost 
every  step  treads  on  someone  or  on  something, 
and  does  a  little  damage  to  something  precious. 
Or  perhaps  it  is  that  I  am  a  nature  that  tiptoes 
instinctively,  to  give  to  itself  the  illusion  of 
keeping  a  little  aloof  from  the  world,  —  perhaps 
I  am  afraid  of  attaching  to  my  soles  too  much 
of  the  world.  At  any  rate,  you  are  right.  I 
tiptoe  through  life;  I  should  not  like  to  make 
a  noise  and  to  jostle  in  the  rush  onward.  It 
might  be  good  to  do  so,  but,"  he  added  smiling, 
"I  am  sure  it  would  not  be  beautiful." 

"You  are  not  sure,"  I  corrected  the  smiling 
Taddeo,  "you  merely  feel  sure;  you  trust  your 
blind  instincts  or  whatever  you  wish  to  call  your 
vague  emotional  convictions." 

"In  tiptoeing  through  life,  I  have  had  leisure 
and  opportunity  to  test  my  instincts  or  vague 
feelings,  and  they  are  trustworthy,  just  as  yours 


are." 


"But  mine  aren't,  Taddeo,  and  that  is  one 
of  the  few  things  I  do  know." 

Taddeo  was  gazing  at  me  in  his  rapt  and 
intense  way,  and  now  he  shook  his  head  in  a 
truly  elder-brotherly  fashion,  so  I  added:  "In 
the  first  place,  like  the  light  itself  my  feelings 

£893 


PHILOSOPHY 


wax  and  wane,  they  glimmer,  glow  and  burn 
and  are  suddenly  extinguished  to  cold  and 
darkness,  and  one  day  is  never  quite  like  an- 
other: they  are  not  dependable.  But  worse 
than  that,  like  members  of  an  uncongenial 
family,  they  conflict;  they  nag  and  dispute, 
and  all  wish  to  go  their  disparate  ways,  when 
there  is  but  one  family  purse  to  support  them, 
and  so,  if  they  were  to  be  allowed  their  own 
way  they  would  sap  one  another's  strength 
and  the  purse  would  quickly  be  depleted.  And 
far  worse  than  even  this,  like  the  conservative 
members  of  a  progressive  state,  they,  repre- 
senting the  tradition  and  inheritance  of  ages, 
stand  up  in  their  strength  to  oppose  the  young 
and  the  new  instead  of  attaching  themselves  to 
it.  For  instance,  the  ideas  of  the  equality  and 
fraternity  of  man:  —  this  ideal  of  democracy 
raises  its  head  and  immediately  the  innate 
feelings  of  race  and  class  prejudice  and  those 
of  aesthetic  disgust  with  persons  and  conditions 
lift  up  their  hoary  voices  in  a  strong  outcry. 
Or  again,  reason  informs  me  that  some  indi- 
vidual is  a  useful  one  and  deserves  admiration 
and  enthusiasm,  but  some  subtle  personal 
antipathy  obstinately  withholds  it.  And  the 
stronger  the  feeling,  the  harder  the  fight,  and 

£903 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

the  more  difficult  the  control.  I  sometimes 
feel,  Taddeo,  that  this  struggle  will  fill  my  life, 
but  in  one  way  or  another  and  at  any  cost  I 
shall  win." 

I  was  staring  unseeing  into  space  while  I 
was  delivering  this,  but  as  I  ended  I  looked  at 
Taddeo  who,  as  I  knew,  was  staring  at  me. 
His  lips  were  slightly  curled  in  an  ironic  smile, 
but  his  eyes  were  sympathetic  and  sad,  and 
he  said  gently:  "But  you  are  your  feelings 
and  instincts,  and  that  chiefly." 

"I  knew  you  were  going  to  say  that,"  I 
replied,  "but  I  identify  my  real  self  with  my 
reason  and  my  will,  chiefly  with  reason,  the 
guiding  and  enlightening  faculty,  that's  my 
I  —  you  know  James'  phrase  —  ;  the  feelings 
are  only  my  Me;  of  course  the  Me  is  the  con- 
stantly active  matter  the  I  deals  with  in  con- 
nection with  the  world,  and  it  may  be  more 
powerful  than  my  I,  but  I  am  my  I." 

Taddeo  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 
Taddeo's  laugh,  which  was  as  attractive  as  it 
was  rare,  was  spontaneous,  unconscious  and 
astonished,  while  I,  on  the  contrary,  laughed 
as  people  laugh  who  are  brought  up  to  encourage 
their  laughter  as  an  ornament  of  conversation, 
readily  and  consciously. 


PHILOSOPHY 


"My  Me  understands  you,"  he  said,  "al- 
though my  I  might  pick  flaws  in  your  theory; 
but  as  I  am  my  Me  there  is  no  reason  why  my 
Me  and  your  I  should  not  continue  to  compan- 
ion and  develop  together,  while  your  Me  and 
my  I  watch  sadly  from  the  background." 

"There  is  no  development  for  your  Me," 
I  replied;  "feelings  don't  develop  by  them- 
selves, only  the  intellect  can  help  them  by 
directing  them  into  new  paths  and  fixing  and 
attaching  them  to  new  objects;  their  only  hope 
of  growth  lies  in  the  collaboration  of  the  in- 
tellect, so  recall  your  I  if  you  want  to  enjoy 
your  Me;  —  unless  of  course  you  find  it  more 
convenient  to  make  use  of  my  I  to  feed  your 
Me  with." 

This  sortie  was  meant  as  a  reprisal  for  his 
amusement;  and  indeed  he  flushed  a  little,  but 
I  knew  that  it  was  only  the  unexpected  per- 
sonal contact  of  the  idea  that  shocked  him, 
for  smiling  in  his  sweet  way  that  somehow 
always  reproved  me  (to  my  annoyance),  he 
answered:  "Fortunately  we  are  all  indivisible 
wholes,  and  the  whole  grows  all  together;  — 
but  you  cannot  tease  me  at  all,  since  anything 
you  will  say  in  fun  will  be  true,  even  about 
your  fictitious  I  and  my  fictitious  Me;"  and 

£923 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

Taddeo's  dark  eyes  looked  unhappily  happily 
into  mine  and  put  an  end  to  the  conversation 
to  which  they  supplied  the  punctuation,  leav- 
ing me  annoyed  without  quite  knowing  why, 
lazy-minded,  and  in  fact  consciously  falling  into 
the  "Me."  He  at  times  affected  me  as  music 
does  those  too  tired  to  be  critical. 

After  breakfast  we  walked  back  to  Giinters- 
thal.  The  day  was  now  quite  mature  and  all 
live  things  were  busy.  In  the  village  we  sought 
out  a  secluded  peasant  house  with  an  especially 
pretty  flower  garden  and  a  little  orchard  ad- 
joining it.  Taddeo  placed  his  camp-stool 
under  a  shady  apple-tree  and  sketched  the 
larkspur  and  roses  and  cornflowers  in  the  sun 
beyond,  and  I  sat  upon  the  grass  and  leaned 
against  the  trunk  of  his  tree.  I  held  Heine's 
"Buch  der  Lieder"  on  my  knees  and  from  it 
read  to  myself  and  sometimes  to  Taddeo,  who 
had  most  of  it  by  heart.  —  Until  dreaminess 
overcame  me  and  the  red  volume  lay  on  the 
grass.  I  watched  it  where  it  lay,  watched 
various  insects  creep  over  it  and  a  blue  butterfly 
rest  on  it  for  a  moment  and  flecks  of  sunlight 
play  about  and  on  it,  and  I  reflected  that  at 
least  a  part  of  the  atmosphere  the  songs  so 
marvellously  exhaled  was  floating  materialized 

£933 


PHILOSOPHY 


about  their  physical  frame.  And  as  I  watched 
the  blue  butterfly  flutter  its  wings  it  carried 
my  gaze  with  it  to  Taddeo's  shoulder  where 
it  alighted.  He  sat  in  the  light  shade  of 
the  apple-tree  with  green  reflections  on  his 
smooth  skin  and  yellow  lights  dancing  upon  it, 
his  eyes  dark  and  large,  his  lips  compressed  and 
depressed  at  the  corners,  and  he  too,  I  thought, 
embodied  the  vague,  melancholy,  tender,  sad 
and  ecstatic  youth  of  whose  heart-throbs  most 
of  the  songs  are  the  record.  —  And  the  flowers 
beyond  in  sunlight,  even  the  whitewashed  wall 
of  the  peasant  house  and  its  geranium-framed 
windows,  —  all  connected  itself  with  this  poetry, 
it  seemed  to  me;  —  all  but  myself.  And  some- 
how the  charm  of  it  all,  instead  of  buoying  me 
up,  lay  heavy  on  my  heart  and  I  instructed 
myself  with  melancholy:  "If  what  you  said 
to  Taddeo  is  true,  all  this  beauty,  the  intoxi- 
cation of  colour,  the  exhilaration  of  light,  the 
marvels  of  the  exquisite  complexities  of  vege- 
table and  animal  life,  the  drowsy  deliciousness 
of  the  summer  breeze  and  the  beauty  of  Taddeo's 
body  and  the  charm  of  his  spirit  and  the  per- 
fume of  their  purity,  what  are  they  and  what 
are  they  for?  What  more  can  the  spirit  desire 
than  to  feel  this  rich  satisfaction  of  the  senses, 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

with  the  flowing  down  into  the  profundities 
of  the  soul  of  a  slow  wave  of  enthusiasm  and 
an  accompanying  inrush  of  vitality?"  —  And 
although  I  did  not  know  why  these  things 
should  not  completely  satisfy  me,  yet  I  knew 
that  they  did  not.  — 

Taddeo  was  working  steadily  and  sternly, 
and  with  sighs  of  perplexity  I  opened  my 
book  of  songs  and  the  page  I  held  sang  these 
verses: 

"Manch  Bild  vergessener  Zeiten 
Steigt  auf  aus  seinem  Grab ', 
Und  zeigt,  wie  in  deiner  Nahe 
Ich  einst  gelebet  hab'. 

"Am  Tage  schwankte  ich  traumend 
Durch  alle  Strassen  herum, 
Die  Leute  verwundert  mich  ansah'n, 
Ich  war  so  traurig  und  stumm. 

"Des  Nachts,  da  war  es  besser, 
Da  waren  die  Strassen  leer; 
Ich  und  mein  Schatten  selbander, 
Wir  wandelten  schweigend  einher. 

"Mit  widerhallendem  Fusstritt 
Wandelt'  ich  iiber  die  Briick'; 


PHILOSOPHY 


Der  Mond  brach  aus  den  Wolken 
Und  griisste  mit  ernstem  Blick. 

"Stehn  blieb  ich  vor  deinem  Hause 
Und  starrte  in  die  Hoh', 
Und  starrte  nach  deinem  Fenster,  — 
Das  Herz  tat  mir  so  weh. 

"Ich  weiss,  du  hast  aus  dem  Fenster 
Gar  oft  herabgesehn, 
Und  sahst  mich  im  Mondenlichte 
Wie  eine  Saule  stehn." 

Here  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  I  had 
never  seen  Taddeo  at  night,  neither  on  a  dark 
and  opaque  night  nor  in  the  moonshine  nor 
under  a  starry  sky.  So  I  closed  my  eyes  and 
pictured  him  walking  across  the  bridge,  alone, 
his  brow  and  his  eyes  heavy  with  sadness.  And 
then  I  pictured  myself  walking  beside  him  and 
holding  his  hand  in  mine,  and  I  felt  his  hand 
trembling  and  the  motion  of  his  swaying  body 
and  felt  that  the  moonshine  in  the  air  was  all 
that  separated  us  —  nothing  more  —  and  that 
this  was  to  go  on  indefinitely  and  that  the  win- 
dow would  not  be  reached  in  dumb  despair 
—  nor  in  any  way  —  ever.  .  . 

I  opened  my  eyes,  sighed  at  my  uncontrolled 

£963 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

fancies,  threw  the  Book  of  Songs  on  the  grass 
again  and  took  from  my  pocket  my  Reklam 
edition  of  Descartes.  Taddeo's  attention, 
guided  to  me  by  my  extraordinary  sighs,  led 
to  his  asking: 

"Why  do  you  sigh  so,  are  you  bored?" 
"Certainly   not,"   I    answered   disagreeably; 
"I   was   only   reading   about   a   youth   whose 
emotionalism  reminded  me  of  you." 

His  glance  wandered  to  the  red  book  a  few 
feet  away,  lying  open  as  it  had  been  pitched. 
He  rose  and  grasping  it  said,  "That  is  easily 
possible,"  and  then  he  looked  at  the  open  pages 
and  a  wave  of  blood  rose  and  ebbed  in  his 
cheeks,  as  without  a  word  or  a  further  glance 
he  returned  to  work.  I  saw  his  pain  and  his 
darkened  eyes  and  his  wounded  and  trembling 
lips  and  I  might  have  put  my  arms  about  his 
shoulders,  (I  did  in  imagination),  and  have 
murmured  or  whispered  or  even  said  quite 
loud:  "And  I  pictured  myself  walking  with 
you  in  the  night,  hand-in-hand,  and  we  never 
reached  the  window  at  all,"  or  something  to 
that  effect,  but  instead  I  thought  of  a  fairy 
tale  I  knew,  in  which  one  person,  touching 
another,  sticks  forever  to  him,  and  it  seemed 
quite  possible  to  me  that  my  arms  might  stick 


PHILOSOPHY 


forever  were  I  to  place  them  around  him,  and 
that  I  should  then  be  condemned  to  flush  when 
he  flushed  and  tremble  when  he  trembled  and 
feel  the  sadness  in  his  eyes  and  the  loneliness 
in  his  heart,  —  and  frightened  I  kept  my  eyes 
upon  my  Descartes  in  complete  silence,  and 
clouds  of  discomfort  blotted  out  Descartes  and 
Taddeo  alike. 

"I  have  a  poem  for  you  also,  little  sister," 
Taddeo  said  after  what  seemed  a  long  time, 
and  taking  up  the  volume  again  he  searched 
for  it,  and  finding  it  read : 

"Zu  fragmentarisch  ist  Welt  und  Leben  — 
Ich  will  mich  zum  deutschen  Professor  bege- 

ben, 

Der  weiss  das  Leben  zusammenzusetzen, 
Und  er  macht  ein  verstandlich  System  daraus; 
Mit  seinen  Nachtmiitzen  und  Schlafrockfetzen 
Stopft  er  die  Liicken  des  Weltenbaus." 

"I  am  not  your  sister  and  I  know  this,"  I 
said  to  the  amused  Taddeo,  "agreed  for  the 
sake  of  argument  that  feeling  and  will  are  of 
tremendous  importance  in  life,  —  in  order  to 
determine  their  value  relatively  to  the  intellect 
or  even  their  interrelation,  one  uses  what? 
One's  intellect." 

C983 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

"I  know  this,"  said  Taddeo,  "that  in  order 
to  use  the  intellect  in  the  search  for  truth,  one 
has  to  care  for  truth,  to  want  and  desire  it, 
and  to  will  to  have  it." 

"You  put  it  that  way  because  Rickert  does 
in  his  '  Erkenntnistheorie,' "  I  said  scornfully. 

"I  put  it  in  that  way  in  spite  of  Rickert 
having  put  it  in  that  way  in  his  'Erkenntnis- 
theorie.'" 

"Then  in  spite  of  not  wishing  to  see  the  truth 
as  another  sees  it,  your  intellect  coerces  you," 
I  said;  "let's  talk  of  something  else.  .  .  ." 

As  we  started  for  home,  our  hostess  came 
running  after  us  waving  a  handkerchief.    Tad- 
deo turned  back  to  meet  her. 
i    "Des  Freilei  Schweschter  hat's  Taschetichli 
liege  lasse,"  she  said,  handing  it  to  him. 

"How  did  you  know  her  for  my  sister?" 
asked  Taddeo. 

"I  shouldn't  know  that,"  she  cried,  "when 
they  resemble  one  another  like  two  eggs." 

"Eh  bien,"  said  he  as  we  walked  on,  "not 
only  are  we  brother  and  sister  as  I  claim  and 
you  deny,  but  we  resemble  one  another  as  do 
two  eggs." 

"I'm  sure  I'm  awfully  flattered;  had  she 
mistaken  me  for  Aphrodite  herself  it  would 

C993 


PHILOSOPHY 


not  have  flattered  me  so  much;  —  and  although 
I  intensely  wish  to  look  like  the  most  beautiful 
youth  on  earth,  even  more  than  that  I  wish 
that  you  were  my  very  own  real  brother,  dear 
Taddeo."  Taddeo  looked  ahead  and  said 
nothing.  "Nevertheless  we're  not  as  alike  as 
brother  and  sister."  Taddeo  remained  silent. 
"Nevertheless  we're  not  as  alike  as  two  eggs." 
Taddeo  remained  silent.  "And  you  can  hardly 
deny  that  anyway,  however  that  may  be,  we're 
not  brother  and  sister  any  more  than  we  are 
two  eggs." 

"I   do  not,   and  we   are  not,  little  sister," 
Taddeo  said  with  a  happy  smile. 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


OU  are  a  wonderfully  wise  youth,"  I 
remarked  to  Taddeo  one  day,  as  we  walked 
through  the  woods  to  St.  Ottilien,  and  dis- 
cussed our  national  predilections,  "you  have 
opinions  on  all  subjects,  you  theorize  about  all 
events,  all  nations,  classes  and  kinds  of  men, 
about  all  relationships;  in  fact  you're  a  psychol- 
ogist one  hundred  years  old  and  one  thousand 
years  wise,  and  although  your  opinions  are 
probably  wrong,  or  at  least  not  completely 
right,  it  is  wonderful  that  you  should  hold  so 
many,  that  you  should  feel  something  for  and 
with  all  human  beings  in  all  situations;  for 
you  are  but  twenty-three  after  all  and  you 
live  more  aloof  from  others  than  most  of  us, 
and  you're  not  so  awfully  experienced,  are 
you?" 

"No,"  Taddeo  replied,  "I  am  not  at  all 
experienced,  I  am  perhaps  quite  unusually 
inexperienced,  so  if  I  am  indeed  acquainted 
with  many  things  it  cannot  be  otherwise  than 
by  some  a  priori  intuition,  can  it,  pupil  of  Kant 
and  Rickert?  Or  else  I  must  have  inherited 


PHILOSOPHY 


together  with  my  organism  whatever  knowledge 
I  have  of  human  affairs!  I  do  at  times  think 
that  I  must  have  come  into  the  world  fitted 
with  some  apparatus  for  registering  auto- 
matically all  kinds  of  foreign  consciousness  I 
come  into  contact  with.  But  so  have  you,  little 
sister." 

"But  alas,  I  have  not,  Taddeo,  so  little  so, 
that  I  find  it  entirely  wonderful  that  you 
should  really  know,  really  understand  and 
interpret  anything  of  which  you  have  not  im- 
mediate experience.  Just  because  in  my  case, 
only  that  which  I  experience,  and  by  that  I 
mean  that  which  comes  to  me  in  such  a  way 
as  to  force  a  personal  response,  gives  me  the 
feeling  of  real  acquaintance." 

"You  are  exaggerating,  little  sister." 

"Negligibly,  little  brother." 

"Because  you  are  thinking  in  a  careless 
hurry,  little  sister." 

"I  am  not,  little  brother;  about  myself,  as 
you  hardly  can  have  failed  to  observe,  I  think 
often  and  with  affectionate  persistency." 

"Then  explain  your  exaggerated  and  uncon- 
vincing statement,  little  sister." 

"Very  well,  brother  of  an  exaggerated  and 
unconvincing  sister;  I  shall  try  to.  Let  us 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

sit  down  here  on  this  'Aussichts'  bench  which 
may  help  me  to  a  view  of  myself  and  my  past." 

"The  sign  calls  it  'Aussichtspunkt  zum 
Beauregard,'"  Taddeo  said,  smiling. 

"Only  another  name  for  introspection,  after 
all,"  I  replied.  —  "Well  then,  it's  this  way, 
I  think:  Dependence  on  personal  experience 
simply  is  a  trait  of  mine,  and  accounts,  I  believe, 
for  the  rather  peculiar  fact  that  the  world  has 
of  late  presented  itself  to  me  as  a  conglomera- 
tion of  fascinating  mysteries.  At  first  this 
somewhat  mystical  mental  attitude  puzzled 
and  worried  me,  and  it  is  only  recently  that  I 
have  relieved  my  uneasiness  by  hitting  on  this 
simple  explanation.  .  .  For  don't  you  see  it's 
just  because  I  have  ceased  to  accept  the  views 
and  the  authority  of  others  and  depend  so 
entirely  on  my  private  experience  that  my  real 
world  has  shrunk  to  a  small  ball  of  solid  matter 
encompassed  by  a  huge  penumbra  of  the  un- 
experienced, the  possible,  the  indefinite,  the 
mysterious.  .  .  And  this  deplorably  limiting 
attitude  seems  to  me,  reviewing  myself,  to  have 
been  engendered  as  follows:  By  natural  bent 
I  am  a  respectfully  receptive  creature.  Yes, 
Taddeo,  decidedly  so.  From  babyhood  on 
nothing  in  the  enveloping  world  impressed  me 


PHILOSOPHY 


as  half  so  wonderful  as  the  grown-up  people 
who  mediated  between  it  and  myself.  I  was,  in 
fact,  little  more  than  a  body  of  suffused  enthu- 
siasm for  the  wisdom  of  mature  humanity. 
That  my  nurse  should  have  known  to  do  the 
right  things  at  the  proper  moment,  that  my 
mother  should  have  known  how  to  do  so  many, 
many  things,  that  all  kinds  of  men  came  into 
the  house  and  'fixed'  things  successfully  never 
ceased  to  stun  my  mind,  whereas  the  things  the 
other  children  in  the  family  guessed  and  con- 
cluded neither  impressed  nor  interested  me  at 
all.  And  when  I  went  to  school,  the  teachers 
and  their  information  and  all  their  incompre- 
hensible grown-up  sureness  in  dealing  with 
situations  dazzled  me.  I  must  have  felt,  I 
think,  as  if  above  and  beyond  me  and  some  day 
for  me,  there  were  layers  of  living  known  only 
to  mature  persons;  ways  of  receiving  life  and 
standards  of  judging  that  had  come  to  them 
spontaneously  by  virtue  of  their  age.  .  .  . 

I  had,  indeed,  a  first  tho'  vague  experience 
on  my  seventh  birthday,  when  my  nurse,  a 
catholic  Irish  woman,  informed  me  that  while 
before  this  she  had  been  responsible  to  God  for 
my  behaviour,  I,  having  reached  the  age  of 
seven,  was  now  myself  responsible,  and  that 

c  1043 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

whether  or  not  I  did  what  she  dutifully  had 
pointed  out  to  me  as  the  right,  was,  so  far  as 
God  was  concerned,  my  own  affair.  I  remember 
how  I  felt  about  this  ethical  emancipation.  I 
did  not  in  the  least  believe  in  her  God  with 
whom  she  tried  to  plunge  me  into  direct  rela- 
tions, because  I  knew  for  one  thing  that  her 
God  was  not  my  Mother's  God,  though  both 
were  the  only  God;  and  also  because  although 
both  Gods  seemed  remarkable  inventions  on 
the  part  of  my  two  most  important  grown-ups, 
interesting  like  their  medicine  chests  and 
umbrellas,  unlike  these  neither  had  on  any 
occasion  had  any  real  effect  on  me.  But 
accompanying  my  doubt  and  dismissal  of  the 
religious  element  in  my  new  state,  there  was 
a  feeling  of  great  pride  that  my  nurse  should 
think  me  sufficiently  mature  to  know  how  to 
act  and  sufficiently  important  to  have  her  God's 
individual  attention,  and  this  feeling  swamped 
the  awakening  critical  one  and  I  remained  a 
receptive  child.  .  .  My  first  sharp  personal  ex- 
perience was  connected  with  a  disagreement  of 
some  importance  between  my  Mother  and  my- 
self and  although  I  recall  only  vaguely  her 
anger  and  my  tears,  I  distinctly  re-live  the 
wonderful  emotion  of  personal  dignity  upon 


PHILOSOPHY 


finding  myself  taking  my  own  independent  line. 
And  I  can  still  re-feel  this  emotion  swelling  my 
personality  to  proportions  so  huge  that  all  en- 
croaching states,  discomfort  and  confusion,  pain 
and  tears  were  completely  blotted  out.  .  . 
Since  those  days  of  my  childhood  I  have 
slowly  and  painfully  found  out,  and  always  by 
experience,  that  the  certainties  of  the  grown- 
ups expressed  in  their  active  responses,  in  their 
emotional  valuations,  as  well  as  in  their  theories, 
are  not  universally  valid,  but  only  common- 
place, and  that  there  is  no  kingdom  of  proper 
action  and  feeling  common  to  all,  upon  which 
one  enters  on  reaching  maturity.  Experience 
has  revealed  to  me  that  the  world  is  a  totally 
different  world  when  one  is  personally  ac- 
quainted with  it,  from  its  'hear-say'  self,  no 
matter  who  the  gossip  may  be.  And  since  my 
belief  in  the  certitude  of  other  consciousnesses 
has  been  destroyed  by  experience,  itself  has, 
of  course,  become  my  light,  and  that  upon 
which  it  has  not  yet  shone,  lies  in  the  shadows 
and  fascinates  me  in  its  mystery,  and  I  specu- 
late with  pleasurable  excitement  on  what  will 
some  day  be  disclosed." 

"And  in  the  meantime,"  said  Taddeo,  "you 
do  give  personal  responses  to  foreign  experience 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

in  the  literature  you  read,  in  art,  in  the  social 
order  and  in  the  individual  life  about  you; 
for  all  this  experience  is  after  all  extraneous 
to  you  as  it  is  to  me,  and  yet  you  respond, 
not  after  living  through  the  same  situations, 
but  instinctively  and  immediately,  is  it  not 
so?" 

"But  there  is  a  real  distinction  between 
intuitive  response  and  experience,  do  you  not 
see,"  I  exclaimed,  "for  although  spirit  calls  to 
spirit  and  one  does  respond  to  all  its  manifesta- 
tions, and  most  intensely  and  immediately  to 
artistic  stimulation,  what,  I  ask  you,  assures 
me  that  the  emotion  aroused  is  a  truly  sympa- 
thetic, that  is,  an  identical  one?  In  the  case  of 
art  itself,  what  warrants  a  belief  that  the  re- 
sponse contains  real  understanding  of  the 
artist's  attitude?  And  so  in  all  other  cases  in- 
volving men  and  their  spirit  and  their  work,  — 
of  course  I  am  conscious  of  responding  with 
feeling  to  all  that  touches  me,  but  is  it  a  corre- 
sponding and  a  comprehending  feeling?  Is  it 
knowledge?  When  that  which  arouses  it  is 
something  that  in  the  course  of  living  has  had 
to  establish  relations  with  myself,  I  imagine 
that  the  response  corresponds  and  gives  reliable 
understanding,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  if  it 


PHILOSOPHY 


have  no  direct  experience  to  appeal  to,  it  may 
or  may  not  be  knowledge." 

"And  how  does  the  original  experience  — 
the  external  stimulus  which  has  established 
relations  to  the  response  —  having  had  nothing 
already  existing  to  test  itself  by,  carry  con- 
viction that  it  gives  knowledge  and  hence  is  a 
real  experience?"  Taddeo  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said,  "except  that  it  had 
to  be  accepted  because  it  was  inevitable  in  the 
process  of  living;  do  you  know?" 

"I  don't  need  to,"  Taddeo  answered,  "be- 
cause I  believe  all  responses,  even  if  not  inevi- 
table and  not  real  experience  in  your  sense,  to 
be  valuable,  in  that  although  they  may  not 
grasp  foreign  consciousness  accurately  they  at 
least  add  to  one's  fitness  for  understanding. 
One  practices  in  the  art  of  knowing,  even  if 
one  cannot  be  certain  of  having  reached 
knowledge." 

"Where  do  you  place  the  difference  in  our 
views,  then?"  I  asked  him. 

"I  think  your  idea  of  full  experience  over- 
emphasizes the  element  of  intellectuality .  You 
reject  intuitive  response  because  you  desire 
to  somehow  fix  the  stimulus,  your  ideal  be- 
ing, as  you  yourself  constantly  asseverate,  in- 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

telledlual.  By  knowing  definite,  measurable, 
usable  things  about  the  other  mind  or  its 
expression,  you  imagine  that  you  can  somehow 
make  your  emotion  more  accurate  and  that  in 
return  it  will  unmistakably  lead  you  into  the 
heart  of  the  other." 

"Yes,  yes,  that's  true,  and  the  explanation 
of  my  attitude  is  that  I  am  essentially  an 
emotional  nature  and  tend  to  react  emotionally 
with  immediacy,  so  that  intellectual  mediation 
has  no  chance  to  intervene.  And  therefore  it 
is  only  after  the  response  is  made  that  I  can 
endeavor  to  correct  it.  Whereas  you,  who  are 
an  emotionally  controlled  and  contemplatively 
intellectual  nature,  pursue  the  natural  order  of 
first  apprehending  intellectually  and  then  ap- 
preciating emotionally.  Yes,  that  must  be  it; 
whereas  you  make  foreign  experience  your  own, 
I  try  and  try  in  vain  to  get  my  own  to  corre- 
spond to  that  of  others." 

"You  should  have  entertained  Socrates  with 
this  hair-splitting  analysis,"  Taddeo  remarked, 
"but  even  I  enjoyed  it,  and  the  outcome  I  find 
particularly  amusing,  which  seems  to  be,  that, 
while  we  are  both  trying  to  do  the  same  thing,  - 
to  get  at  the  heart  of  the  world's  desire  intel- 
lectually and  through  sympathy,  —  you  are 

CI093 


PHILOSOPHY 


so  young  and  so  impetuous  and  so  subjective 
that  you  more  often  fail,  and  I  am  so  old  and 
so  calm  and  so  objective  that  I  more  often 
succeed." 

"Well,"  I  remarked,  "isn't  it  the  truth?" 

"Not  in  my  case,"  said  Taddeo. 

"What  then  is  the  truth  in  your  case?"  I 
asked. 

"Not  having  experienced  it,  you  would  not 
understand  it,"  he  replied. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  I  said. 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 


N< 


OT  long  after  we  plunged  back  into  our 
chief  dispute.  The  occasion  was  an  exhibition 
of  Wiswamitra's  accomplishments  by  Taddeo 
who  rode  extremely  well,  during  which  Wanda 
stood  squattily  on  the  roadside  and  allowed 
her  "confrere"  to  display  his  charms  before 
her  without  the  slightest  show  of  interest.  As 
a  finish  to  the  performance  Taddeo  put  the 
spurs  to  Wiswamitra  and  they  flew  past  at  a 
pace  which  looked  like  the  running-away  pace. 
And  it  likewise  looked  very  splendid,  and  I 
thought  that  to  fly  through  space  next  to  them 
would  be  to  approach  as  nearly  as  was  com- 
patible with  human  limitations  to  the  feeling  of 
perfect  freedom.  Under  the  given  conditions 
(Wanda)  this  could  not  be  tested,  but  I  men- 
tioned it  to  Taddeo  in  a  complimentary  speech. 
"I  don't  understand  what  in  this  feeling  of 
flying  (if  you  will)  on  a  horse,  can  appear  to 
you  like  freedom,"  he  said;  "if  the  horse  were 
to  run  away,  then  perhaps  one  might  feel  free, 
—  free  from  responsibilities,  free  from  the 
power  of  foretelling  the  future,  free  from  all  but 


PHILOSOPHY 


the  intoxication  of  the  present  sensation  with 
an  unknown  and  incalculable  background. 
Such  concentration  in  the  moment,  such  a 
sense  of  oneness,  of  unity,  might  be  a  sense  of 
freedom.  .  .  And,"  continued  Taddeo,  with  a 
smile  one  gives  a  child  one  loves  but  teases, 
"the  horse  too,  if  he  were  running  away,  might 
feel  free;  he  would  at  least  be  obeying  the 
dictates  of  his  own  nature,  he  would  not  indeed 
quite  attain  Kantian  ideals,  since  he  might  not 
conceive  it  a  law  of  his  reason  to  run  away,  — 
still,  he  would  be  acting  in  his  own  fashion, 
freed  from  the  control  of  outside  forces.  .  .  Yes, 
Wiswamitra  would  be  a  relatively  free  creature 
if  he  ran  away,  and  I  might  feel  like  a  free 
creature  for  a  moment,  if  he  ran  me  away. 
But  as  it  is,  guiding  him  to  behave  himself, 
how  can  either  he  or  I  feel  free?  But  your 
explanations,  little  sister,  —  no  —  a  moment  — 
I  will  guess  them.  I  am  quite  wrong  in  think- 
ing that  a  sense  of  irresponsibility  is  freedom; 
it  is  just  because  of  my  control  over  the  horse,  — 
because  I  am  driving  my  will  into  the  horse's 
actions,  because  in  short  these  actions  full  of 
action,  of  life,  of  force,  of  apparent  freedom 
are  yet  controlled  by  me,  —  that  I  feel  free; 
is  it  not  this  you  were  going  to  say?"  Taddeo 

C"» -3 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

put  his  hand  on  my  bridle  and  looked  under 
the  brim  of  my  hat.  "The  victory  of  the 
human  intelligence  over  brute  force  without 
its  destruction,  the  utilisation  of  brute  force 
by  brain  force,  etc.,  etc."  (During  which  his 
eyes  were  twinkling  into  mine.) 

I  replied:  "If  I  were  you  now,  Taddeo 
brother,  I  should  no  doubt  sulk  and  refuse 
further  conversation  on  the  matter.  This 
would  of  course  be  the  logical  attitude  of  a 
sensitive  nature  with  a  scorn  for  the  intellect. 
I  shall  now  show  how  the  opposite  sort  of  per- 
son whom  nevertheless  you  persist  in  calling 
sister,  for  reasons  known  to  yourself  alone, 
proceeds  under  such  provocation.  .  .  Let's 
discuss  the  question  methodically.  But  first 
let  me  tell  you  that  I  don't  consider  things 
untrue  simply  because  someone  else  has  found 
them  out  first  or  because  others,  even  many 
others,  have  tested  them  to  their  satisfaction. 
In  fact,  even  if  the  whole  world  agreed  on 
something,  it  would  not  necessarily  be  untrue 
to  my  mind.  So  much  for  the  trite  sayings  you 
attribute  to  me.  .  .  What  then  must  one  under- 
stand by  a  free  person?  Every  modern  novel 
speaks  of  the  'esprit  libre,'  the  free  or  emanci- 
pated individual;  what  do  you  think  this 


PHILOSOPHY 


ought  to  mean?  I'll  tell  you  what  it  means, 
if  anything.  The  way  I  have  thought  it  out  is 
by  imagining  what  I  shall  be  when  I  shall  be 
free.  Well,  I  shall  be  a  person  who  acts  openly 
in  accordance  with  her  intellectual  convictions. 
For  it  isn't  enough  to  say  with  Kant  that  I 
must  give  myself  the  law  in  accordance  with 
my  own  nature  and  without  external  com- 
pulsion. The  real  struggle  does  not  lie  between 
external  and  internal  influences;  not  at  all; 
Spinoza  was  much  closer  to  the  truth  when  he 
saw  that  it  was  a  question  of  the  supremacy  of 
one  part  of  one's  nature  over  another,  of  the 
reason  over  the  emotions.  I  shall  be  free  when 
my  intellect  has  controlled  my  feelings.  .  . 
And  you?" 

Taddeo  was  looking  at  me  with  an  expression 
of  every  kind  of  disturbance,  of  annoyance, 
fear,  sadness  and  a  little  disgust,  all  mingled 
together.  His  voice  was  less  soft,  less  caressing, 
less  singing  than  usual;  it  tried  to  be  what 
most  voices  can't  help  being,  penetrating  and 
deliberate.  He  stopped  his  horse  and  mine, 
probably  unconsciously,  —  I  noticed  all  this 
for  I  was  not  excited,  having  foreknowledge 
of  what  Taddeo  was  going  to  say,  —  in  a 
general  way  at  least. 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

"Listen,"  he  began.  "What  you  think,  or 
what  you  say  you  think,  is  entirely  false;  free- 
dom means  nothing  but  harmony,  yes;  but  it 
is  not  the  vidtory  of  the  intelligence  over  the 
feelings,  nor  the  opposite,  it  is  an  understand- 
ing between  the  different  phases  of  our  nature; 
—  the  free  individual  is  he  in  whose  soul  all 
seed  comes  to  fruition  somehow,  not  he  who 
kills  half  of  himself  for  the  benefit  of  the  other 
half.  You  feel  this,  you  know  it,  but  you 
won't  admit  it,  is  it  not  so?" 

"I  do  feel  it,  yes,  but  I  don't  think  it,  and 
there  you  have  the  matter  in  a  nutshell,  and 
that's  why  I  am  not  your  sister:  we  differ  in 
this  vital  matter.  —  I  don't  care  bow  I  feel,  I 
want  to  know." 

Taddeo  had  one  of  his  Italian  gestures,  a 
little  shrug  of  despair,  and  a  drawing  in  of  his 
lips  and  a  dropping  of  his  eyes,  as  we  started 
our  horses  up.  "You  are  partially  right,"  I 
continued,  "harmony  is  not  always  strife; 
there  are  natures  whose  elements  blend  into 
white  light,  and  I  believe  you  to  be  one  of 
those  rare  creatures,  dear  Taddeo.  But  far 
oftener  there  is  an  apparent  harmony  only 
which  consists  in  a  colourless  character,  and 
persons  of  such  character  experience  no  conflict 


PHILOSOPHY 


because  either  their  feelings  or  their  convictions 
are  so  weak  that  the  one  party  submits  to  the 
other  without  a  struggle,  in  any  situation.  .  . 
I  even  can  conceive  of  persons  who  are  free 
because  they  have  once  for  all  made  up  their 
minds  to  live  in  accordance  with  their  feelings 
and  impulses,  for  they,  I  suppose,  actually 
form  their  views  with  an  eye  on  their  instincts 
and  emotions,  and  although  their  minds  are 
mere  instruments  of  their  desires,  they  are  not 
slaves  to  them,  because  this  subordination  has 
been  voluntarily  chosen.  Such  persons  may 
no  doubt  feel  free  in  an  individualistic  manner; 
it  is  the  freedom  of  which  we  hear  from  some 
interpreters  of  Nietzsche  in  the  phrase  'das 
Sich-aus-leben.'  I  cannot  care  for  this  brand 
of  freedom  because  it  is  illogical.  It  is  anti- 
social and  therefore  it  makes  of  the  individual 
who  has  thus  emancipated  himself  and  who 
nevertheless  still  lives  in  social  relationships  a 
parasite,  one  who  lives  on  others  and  returns 
nothing.  There  remains  the  one  other  method 
of  attaining  harmony:  the  transformation  of 
the  character  in  accordance  with  the  teachings 
of  the  reason,  and  consequent  action  based  upon 
them.  This  is  mine." 
Taddeo  said  after  a  while:  "You  imagine 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

most  of  this  disharmony,  you  mistake  for  tur- 
bulence what  are  simply  the  pains  of  growing. 
You  are  young;  I  am  young,  too;  and  new 
emotions  are  blossoming  all  the  time,  just  as 
new  thoughts  are,  but  there  is  room  for  all  and 
for  the  enjoyment  of  all.  With  your  ideal  of 
transforming  the  feelings,  you  run  the  risk  of 
strangling  and  impoverishing  them.  .  .  You 
don't  need  to  do  any  of  these  things,  you  can 
so  well  let  yourself  live  just  as  you  are.  The 
process  of  living,  life  itself,  corrects  these 
things,  my  dear  friend." 

"Taddeo,"  I  took  his  hand  in  mine,  for  we 
communicated  our  excitement  to  one  another, 
"you  are  my  friend  and  I  am  yours;  each 
understands  how  the  other  feels,  —  but  I  must 
work  out  my  own  problems.  You  may  be 
right  and  I  may  be  wrong,  stupid,  and  more 
than  stupid,  but  I  must  know  and  find  it  out 
for  myself.  Don't  discourage  and  dissuade  me. 
With  great  effort  I've  kept  bright  the  little 
illumination  of  my  mind  that  threatens  to  be 
extinguished  by  the  gusts  of  feeling  that  leave 
me  hardly  any  peace.  I  have  succeeded  in 
cultivating  a  certain  repose,  in  meditation, 
in  thought,  in  speech  and  in  manner,  and  these 
are  my  inhibitions  against  the  inroad  of  the 


PHILOSOPHY 


mass  of  my  constantly  arising  and  changing 
sentiment  and  mood.  You  have  greater  con- 
fidence in  their  quality  than  I  have;  perhaps 
you  may  be  right.  It  would  be  very  well  if 
you  were  right,  but,  in  the  meanwhile,  they 
must  not  be  permitted  to  overrun  the  mind. 
And  you  are  to  help  me  by  not  taking  their 
part,  by  remaining  neutral.  Let  us  agree 
to  discuss  all  these  questions  dispassionately 
and  impersonally,  when  we  do  discuss  them, 
shall  we?" 

Taddeo  pressed  my  hand  and  nodded,  and 
said  nothing,  but  I  knew  that  he  understood, 
and  I  knew  what  he  was  feeling,  and  it  was 
hard  for  both  of  us  because  more  than  we  were 
anything  else  we  were  friends,  and  we  were 
young,  and  almost*  irresistibly  drawn  one  to 
the  other.  But  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was 
my  right  — 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 


OUMMER  had  reached  its  full  strength;  a 
July  sun  was  shining  upon  us,  and  the  time 
was  at  hand  for  the  composition  of  my  Seminar 
paper.  The  question  that  confronted  me  for 
settlement  therefore  was  this:  which  of  my 
present  occupations  should  be  sacrificed  to  the 
additional  work? 

Considering  the  situation  lazily,  I  concluded 
that  I  could  not  afford  to  miss  the  mornings 
spent  out  of  doors  with  Taddeo,  for  —  I  told 
myself  —  they  were  necessary  to  me.  Neither 
could  I  afford  to  miss  my  afternoon  lectures 
and  my  library  work.  As  for  the  twilight  hour 
on  the  balcony,  dedicated  to  the  celebration  of 
approaching  night  and  to  meditation,  were  I 
to  give  up  this  hour,  I  reflected,  I  should  have 
but  half  lived  the  preceding  ones  and  their 
events,  and  all  the  half-thought  thoughts,  half- 
felt  feelings  and  half-spoken  sentences  of  the 
day  would  never  reach  completion.  There 
remained  but  the  black  portion  of  the  night 
which,  well  filled  with  study,  seemed  as  neces- 
sary to  my  intellectual  progress,  if  not  to  my 


PHILOSOPHY 


general  well-being,  as  the  other  parts  of  the 
day.  And  so  I  played  with  possible  plans  and 
arrangements,  while  fully  formed  in  the  back- 
ground of  consciousness  lay  the  knowledge  that 
it  was  the  mornings  that  would  have  to  be 
sacrificed  for  the  remaining  two  or  three  weeks. 
I  said  the  mornings,  but  the  sacrifice  that  took 
dim  pictorial  outlines  was  that  of  Taddeo  and 
myself,  whom  I  fancied  walking  hand  in  hand 
to  some  indefinite  altar,  and  at  the  moment  of 
separation  vanishing  into  currents  of  air  rush- 
ing in  opposite  directions.  .  .  This  knowledge 
having  finally  and  in  spite  of  passive  resistance 
penetrated  into  the  glare  of  full  consciousness, 
the  next  event  that  my  unwilling  mind  foresaw 
was  that  of  the  announcement  of  its  necessity 
to  Taddeo.  Taddeo  and  myself  had,  as  by 
some  magical  circumstance,  fallen  into  a  friend- 
ship so  complete  that  it  presented  no  occasion 
for  realisation  in  consciousness.  As  the  will 
must  be  thwarted  to  become  self-conscious,  as 
the  attention  must  be  confronted  with  alter- 
natives to  actively  choose,  as  some  difficulty 
must  arise  to  create  a  conscious  situation,  so 
perhaps,  some  untoward  circumstance,  some 
essential  difference,  some  flaw  and  imperfection, 
such  as  the  necessity  for  temporary  renuncia- 
C  120] 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

tion,  was  needed  to  bring  us  to  a  realization  of 
our  relation. 

And  now  the  twilight  hour  of  fading  light 
that  had  the  effect  of  resolving  all  mental 
activity  into  waves  and  billows  of  feeling 
against  which  the  weary  mind  rested  in  delicious 
comfort  and  whose  far-off  and  inarticulate 
music  celebrated  Taddeo,  —  this  twilight  hour 
was  now  resisted  by  a  mood  in  which  the  mists 
had  dissolved,  and  things  were  revealed  as  they 
appeared  when  the  eye  looked  upon  them  with 
the  object  of  seeing.  And  first  of  all,  Freiburg 
presented  itself  not  as  the  many-turreted 
brightly  painted  friend  of  blue  skies  and  golden 
suns,  not  as  the  background  and  embracing 
mother  of  thousands  of  mysterious  men,  women 
and  children  of  strange  and  hence  interesting 
manners  of  intercourse,  living  in  old  dwellings 
eloquent  of  the  taste  of  past  generations  of 
mysterious  beings,  —  but  rather  as  the  Frei- 
burg which  contained  the  seat  of  learning  where, 
in  a  limited  amount  of  time,  I  was  to  acquire 
as  large  an  amount  of  special  knowledge  as  I 
was  able  to  assimilate.  And  into  the  former 
Freiburg,  which  was  the  real  experienced  one,  — 
the  latter  having  remained  a  theoretic  ab- 
straction, as  I  now  clearly  perceived,  —  there 


PHILOSOPHY 


had  come  Taddeo,  abstractly  considered  and 
defined,  a  charming  youth  with  whom  inter- 
course was  both  profitable  and  otherwise 
pleasant.  But  concretely  and  empirically  Tad- 
deo had  affected  me  not  at  all  as  a  young  cos- 
mopolitan of  parts,  but,  alas,  as  an  event,  or 
even  as  an  entire  situation,  enveloping,  em- 
bracing, circumfusing.  Indeed,  I  now  identified 
him  as  the  source  and  origin  of  all  those  billows 
of  feeling  that  in  evaporating  had  filled  the 
atmosphere  with  a  sentiment  I  inhaled  with 
delight  and  without  question.  I  likewise 
thought  to  perceive  that  it  was  this  new  con- 
tent of  life  that  had  not  only  completely  ob- 
scured the  ideal  Freiburg  and  my  ideal  tastes, 
but  had  removed  even  the  mysterious  and 
pulsating  Freiburg  to  the  "coulisses,"  reducing 
it  to  a  mere  background  and  setting,  picturesque 
but  unreal.  I  also  thought  to  see,  that  although 
I  was  attending  lectures  and  reading  philosophy, 
although  in  short  I  was  working,  I  was  not 
working  up  to  the  limit  of  my  capacity,  I  was 
not  putting  my  most  intense  energies  into  my 
work.  If  the  attempt  to  understand  the  spirit 
and  to  feel  the  charm  of  the  life  called  Freiburg 
had  encroached  somewhat  upon  my  energies 
before  Taddeo's  advent,  since  his  coming  the 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

new  sentiment  of  which  he  was  the  focal  point 
though  it  had  by  no  means  smothered  my 
intellectual  force  had  considerably  reduced  it. 

What,  I  asked  myself  disgustedly,  did  I  wish, 
after  all?  On  the  external  side  I  wished  to  do 
a  distinguished  piece  of  work  which  would 
lead  to  Rickert's  desire  to  have  me  take  my 
degree  with  him;  and  I  wished  to  obtain  my 
degree  with  another  solid  piece  of  work  which 
should  have  to  do  with  a  problem  I  had  already 
selected  and  whose  discussion  seemed  to  me 
supremely  important.  This  meant,  on  the 
subjective  side,  for  one  thing,  a  thorough 
understanding  of  Rickert's  own  views,  and 
besides,  and  chiefly,  a  general  clarification  of 
my  own  mind  in  reference  to  some  of  the  ulti- 
mate problems  of  philosophy  and  possible 
methods  for  their  solution.  At  the  very  least 
I  was  determined  to  get  a  real  hold  on  the 
kernel  of  the  difficulties  that  philosophic  thought 
attempts  to  unravel.  All  this  within  the  next 
year  or  two. 

Between  this  steep  and  thorny  road  (it  had 
never  seemed  so  before)  and  myself,  Taddeo 
stood  and  beckoned  to  flowering  meadows  and 
romantic  forest,  and  clouds  of  delicious  sym- 
pathy enclosed  his  domain  and  shut  out  all 


PHILOSOPHY 


else.  But  I  thought  of  the  dazzling  heights 
to  be  reached  by  the  steep  and  thorny  path 
and  the  invigorating  air  above  and  the  broad 
outlook  and  the  greater  nearness  to  the  heavens 
and  to  the  truth,  and  Taddeo  appeared  to 
me  as  an  obstruction  that  should  and  might 
well  be  sacrificed.  And  I  told  myself  with 
fright  in  my  heart  that  nothing  that  could  be- 
fall me  was  half  as  terrible  as  to  forget  my  aim 
and  my  ultimate  ideal  even  for  a  moment,  and 
that  without  it  my  life  would  fall  together  like 
a  pack  of  cards.  And  that  I  could  not  grow 
without  a  sense  of  direction,  and  that  I  could 
not  live  without  growing.  .  .  . 

I  next  pictured  the  good-bye  from  Taddeo. 
It  took  the  outlines  of  a  highly  dramatic  sacri- 
ficial rite,  taking  place  Somewhere  in  the  woods, 
preferably  To-morrow  morning.  I  should  ob- 
jectively and  firmly  inform  him  of  the  fact 
that  all  my  thoughts  and  all  my  time  must 
now  go  into  my  "Referat,"  and  that  there  must 
therefore  be  an  interruption  of  our  companion- 
ship; only  temporarily,  I  should  add  kindly, 
for  two  or  three  weeks  perhaps,  and  that  after 
it  was  over  there  would  still  remain  another 
week  before  the  close  of  the  term.  I  foresaw 
Taddeo's  flush  and  his  pain,  and  in  my  sacri- 

£124:1 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

ficial  mood  I  found  pleasure  in  these  stabs  that 
would  wound  and  lacerate  me  as  well,  and  thus 
enhance  the  heroism  of  my  act  in  my  own  eyes. 
I  also  thought  to  foresee  that  Taddeo  would 
kiss  my  hand,  and  in  anticipation  I  felt  the 
nearness  of  his  beautiful  head  and  the  appeal 
in  his  troubled  eyes,  and  I  was  filled  with  pride 
in  my  strength  to  resist  all  this:  I  thought  well 
of  myself. 


PHILOSOPHY 


Ti 


HE  following  morning  I  awakened  to  the 
sound  of  pattering  rain,  and  a  sense  of  dampness 
and  darkness  gradually  impinged  upon  my 
sharpening  senses,  and  also  their  meaning: 
that  the  ceremony  in  the  woods  attending 
the  assertion  of  my  liberty  would  have  to  be 
deferred;  and  a  feeling  of  disappointment  op- 
pressed me.  I  tried  to  settle  down  to  work,  but 
I  became  acutely  conscious  of  the  hard  grey 
light  and  the  ugly  walls  of  my  room,  of  my  in- 
convenient desk  and  of  the  difficulties  of  the 
task  before  me;  and  a  sense  of  the  deadness 
of  things  oppressed  me.  I  began  to  feel  very 
sorry  for  myself,  and  for  a  time  I  saw  myself 
as  a  pathetic  young  figure  struggling  with  the 
problems  that  from  hoary  antiquity  had  occu- 
pied the  minds  of  old  and  ripe  men,  and  I 
almost  laughed  and  almost  cried;  and  a  sense 
of  the  futility  of  all  things  oppressed  me.  As 
the  morning  grew  older  the  strength  of  my 
impulse  leaked  away  completely,  and  by  noon 
I  felt  certain  that  a  perfedl  friendship  was  at 
least  as  valuable  a  state  as  that  of  philosophic 
CI263 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

wisdom,  and  that  the  acquisition  of  the  latter 
was  too  dear  at  the  cost  of  risking  the  loss  of 
the  former.  As  for  my  paper,  it  could  easily 
be  written  between  ten  and  two  in  the  night, 
nor  would  it  be  the  first  time  that  I  had  burned 
midnight  oil  without  disastrous  results.  .  .  Hav- 
ing decided  upon  this,  the  oppression  lifted,  the 
patter  of  the  rain  made  a  pleasantly  intimate 
sound  and  the  grey  light  assumed  an  enveloping 
and  protecting  air.  All  was  well  again  except 
that  deep  down  there  remained  a  gnawing  sense 
of  weakness  and  defeat. 

I  was  about  to  attack  my  books  with  cheer- 
fulness, if  not  with  enthusiasm,  when  Taddeo 
himself  was  announced  as  waiting  to  see  me 
downstairs.  He  never  before  had  come  to  this 
house  where  I  lived,  and  I  descended  wondering 
and  puzzled,  and  the  impression  I  got  on  seeing 
him  standing  in  the  so-called  parlour  was 
chiefly  that  of  the  ugliness  of  everything  except- 
ing himself.  And  then  in  his  gentlest  and 
simplest  manner  he  spoke,  and  apologized  for 
coming  at  all,  and  remarked  that  he  had  but 
come  to  say  farewell,  for  he  found  himself 
obliged  to  go  to  Frankfurt  to  see  an  old  friend 
of  his  father's  who  would  be  there  the  next 
day. 

t: 


PHILOSOPHY 


"For  how  long?"  I  managed  to  ask,  as  I  felt 
myself  flushing  with  surprise. 

"Only  for  a  week  or  two,  three  at  the  ut- 
most," said  Taddeo,  who  was  looking  at  me 
with  an  irritating  expression  of  angelic  satis- 
faction. I  thereupon  said  that  I  hoped  he 
would  enjoy  himself,  that  I  should  be  working 
very  hard  at  my  Referat  in  the  meanwhile, 
that  I  should  not  have  been  able  to  go  out  with 
him  during  the  next  weeks  anyhow,  that  I 
computed  it  would  take  me  four  hours  a  day 
for  two  weeks  to  do  the  necessary  reading,  and 
four  or  five  days  for  the  actual  writing,  —  "so 
I  shan't  miss  you  as  much  as  I  might  otherwise 
have  done,"  I  added,  because,  after  all,  it 
was  Taddeo  and  not  some  accidental  person. 

"Then  I  shan't  so  much  mind  having  to 
go,"  said  Taddeo,  but  he  didn't  look  as  if  he 
minded  in  the  least,  for  there  still  was  the 
expression  of  ecstatic  satisfaction  on  his  face. 

And  after  speaking  a  little  of  Frankfurt  and 
of  other  indifferent  matters,  he  kissed  my  hand 
and  left,  and  the  nearness  of  his  beautiful  face 
was  no  temptation  to  my  sympathy,  and  I  felt 
neither  pride  nor  the  elation  of  strength,  as  bit- 
ing my  lips  and  stiffening  my  muscles,  I  watched 
Taddeo  disappear  from  view  up  the  street. 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 


T. 


HE  next  few  weeks  brought  with  them  a 
satisfaction  and  a  disillusion. 

I  was  happy  to  find  that  concentration  be- 
came more  and  more  easy  for  me  and  was  far 
more  enjoyable  in  practice  than  I  had  antici- 
pated. A  heat-wave  of  a  degree  of  intensity 
never  of  course  experienced  by  Freiburgers  in 
their  entire  history  had  descended  upon  us. 
I  found  it  agreeable  to  rise  at  six  o'clock,  to 
work  for  some  hours  before  and  after  breakfast, 
and  during  the  heat  of  the  day  to  distract  my- 
self with  light  literature,  returning  to  my  work 
again  after  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  and 
continuing  as  far  into  the  night  as  I  felt  entirely 
awake.  In  planning  to  get  the  air  —  exerting 
my  imagination  left  barren  by  Taddeo's  ab- 
sence —  I  hit  upon  the  idea  of  driving  out  from 
eight  to  nine  o'clock,  my  twilight  hour,  which 
had  lost  its  charm  anyway.  As  a  companion  I 
secured  Fraulein  Bliimlein  with  whom  I  had 
become  acquainted  at  Rickert's  course  of 
philosophy  which  she  too  attended.  Fraulein 
Bliimlein  was  a  poetess  by  profession,  and  also 

£129:1 


PHILOSOPHY 


otherwise,  and  her  real  self  and  her  real  life  were 
contained  in  her  published  volumes  of  lyrics, 
and  in  those  that  one  easily  could  fancy  made 
up  her  inner  constitution,  for  she  was  an  im- 
material and  silent  little  woman,  frail  of  body 
and  with  a  face  of  which  it  was  impossible  to 
remember  anything  but  the  expression,  —  shy, 
veiled,  absorbed,  intense  and  worried,  —  this 
not  serially,  but  simultaneously,  so  that,  al- 
though it  was  very  much  of  an  expression,  it 
seemed  not  to  express  anything  actual  or  even 
possible. 

Almost  every  evening  she  and  I  drove  out 
in  a  landau  drawn  by  two  stout  and  lazy  horses, 
-  perhaps  relatives  of  Wanda,  —  and  driven 
by  a  fat,  red-faced  coachman  over  the  roads 
where  I  had  ridden  at  first  alone  and  after- 
wards with  Taddeo,  and  past  villages  which 
lay  much  silenced  and  refined  by  the  gold  and 
pink  glow  of  the  departed  sun.  Leaning  back, 
languid  and  limp  after  the  hot  day,  we  watched 
the  night  preparing  to  descend  and  breathed 
the  evening  breezes  in  sympathetic  silence  until 
we  felt  cooled  and  refreshed. 

On  evenings  a  little  less  hot,  we  sometimes 
walked  together  to  nearby  country  inns  for 
an  "al  fresco"  supper.  On  one  of  these  occa- 

c  130:1 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

sions,  as  we  sat  at  a  table  on  a  terrace  of  the 
"Schlossberg,"  a  mile  up  among  the  vineyards, 
whence  one  had  a  pretty  view  of  the  town  below, 
I  attempted,  inspired  perhaps  by  the  material 
nature  of  our  occupation  and  encouraged  by 
the  view  of  sardines,  ham  and  eggs,  black 
bread,  butter  and  cheese  and  beer,  to  find  out 
what  my  companion  thought  and  felt  when 
not  in  a  lyrical  mood;  how  every-day  and  all- 
the-time  matters,  the  trifles  that  go  to  make 
up  the  weighty  twenty-four  hours,  affected  her, 
and  whether  the  Fraulein  Bliimlein  who  lived 
here  and  now,  and  was  looking  at  and  talking 
to  my  present  and  material  self  was  enjoying 
it  or  not,  for  instance,  and  what  she  thought  of 
our  being  here  together  and  so  on.  So  I  spoke 
of  myself,  of  my  past  studies  in  very  different 
surroundings,  of  my  interests  and  my  ambitious 
hopes.  From  Fraulein  Bliimlein's  reception  of 
this  proffered  information  and  her  responses,  I 
gathered,  however,  that  to  her  I  was  not  really 
an  individual  at  all,  but  rather  a  human  sug- 
gestion, as  it  were,  capable  to  a  high  degree 
both  of  absorbing  and  of  nourishing  her  evi- 
dently incorruptible  lyrical  mood.  And  I  soon 
thought  I  saw  myself  as  she  somehow  had  con- 
ceived me,  —  a  decorative  creature,  indefinite 


PHILOSOPHY 


enough  to  be  pulled  into  any  ideal  shape  and 
complex  enough  to  permit  any  desired  quality 
to  be  stowed  away  into  her,  a  dream-like 
stranger  from  afar,  —  and  at  that  an  afar  which 
the  poetess  did  not  like  to  have  specified.  And 
in  her  presence  I  even  began  to  feel  this  way, 
poetic,  ornamental,  distant  and  unreal,  and 
although  I  knew  that  I  was  none  of  these 
things  excepting  for  Fraulein  Bliimlein,  I 
immensely  enjoyed  getting  the  sense  of  them. 
On  our  drives  together  I  tried  to  look  my  part, 
silent,  rapt,  far-away,  and  I  thought  that  any 
discerning  passer-by  might  easily  recognise  in 
us  two  a  poetess  and  a  poem.  ...  It  was  an 
amusing  game  for  a  while,  but  it  wasn't  human 
intercourse. 

Since  Taddeo's  departure  I  found  myself 
spending  more  time  in  the  Seminar  room  in  the 
late  afternoon,  where  conversations  between 
the  occupants  had  become  more  frequent,  per- 
haps because  the  term  in  drawing  to  an  end 
had  lightened  the  intellectual  burden  of  most 
of  the  students.  We  talked  philosophy,  and 
we  spoke  of  our  plans,  and  it  appeared  that 
most  of  the  special  students  were  intending  to 
return  to  Freiburg  for  the  winter  term.  I  too, 
I  proclaimed,  was  hoping  to  return,  but  I  could 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

not  be  sure  of  a  welcome  before  my  paper 
should  be  judged  worthy.  Although  the  others 
knew  this,  they  had  perhaps  not  realized  that 
I  was  fully  aware  of  it  myself,  and  I  rather 
approved  of  myself  for  my  courage  to  enlighten 
them,  thus  publicly  freighting  the  approaching 
day  with  its  full  and  frightening  significance. 
I  could  be  heroic  for  a  moment  in  following  an 
impulse,  I  reflected,  and  that  this  was  a  pseudo- 
heroism  and  the  only  kind  I  was  capable  of, 
I  likewise  knew,  and  I  disapproved  of  myself 
more  deeply  than  I  had  approved  a  moment 
before.  And  especially  when  in  analysing  my 
feelings  I  comprehended  that  in  reality  what 
I  liked  to  mistake  for  courage  was  chiefly 
vanity.  For  when  I  had  announced  my  aware- 
ness of  the  importance  of  the  approaching 
occasion  to  the  students,  I  knew  the  real 
impelling  reason  to  have  been  a  zest  for  intel- 
lectual excitement,  in  that  the  occasion's  en- 
hanced importance  would  enhance  its  interest 
and  the  significance  of  all  that  was  connected 
with  it.  On  going  to  work  at  my  desk  I  now 
could  say  to  myself:  "This  looks  like  an 
ordinary  desk,  like  ordinary  pen,  paper  and 
ink,  and  the  books  you  are  consulting  are  just 
atoms  in  an  ocean  of  books.  But  in  reality 

£133:1 


PHILOSOPHY 


they  are  the  tools  with  which  you  are  forging 
your  own  destiny,  Henrie,  for  every  sentence 
you  write  will  make  a  difference."  I  did  say 
things  of  this  sort  to  myself  and  it  lent  intensity 
to  my  task  and  glory  to  its  accomplishment, 
and  I  enjoyed  myself. 

In  my  renewed  intercourse  with  the  Seminar 
students  I  made  a  discovery.  They  now  seemed 
far  less  mysterious  and  less  fascinating,  and  I 
found  myself  satisfied  to  take  them  as  they  gave 
themselves.  Even  Herr  Schulze  of  the  "  allure" 
of  a  Renaissance  Christ  seemed  not  entirely  un- 
touched by  the  commonplace,  or  at  any  rate, 
the  negligible.  And  reviewing  my  former  feel- 
ings in  this  matter,  I  now  realized  that  the  out- 
going interest  the  objects  about  me  had  drawn 
from  me,  had  sometime  since  returned  some- 
how from  its  diffused  radiation  and  had  focused 
in  Taddeo.  And  it  appeared  to  me  (although 
obscurely,  because  introspection  became  pain- 
ful, striking  against  the  opaque  as  it  seemed) 
that  this  interest, — which  was  in  essence  in- 
capable of  motion  toward  the  self,  —  now  that 
it  no  longer  flowed  out,  neither  to  Taddeo  nor 
to  the  former  objects  that  had  attracted  it, 
lay  inert,  uncertain,  dormant.  I  seemed  to  go 
about  with  a  deep-down  and  far-away  sense 

£134:1 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

that  some  of  me  was  turned  off  (thinking  of  a 
current),  smothered  (thinking  of  a  flame), 
withering  (thinking  of  a  life),  and  that  it  had 
left  the  rest  of  me  brighter,  simpler,  harder, 
more  efficient,  —  like  a  machine.  .  .  But  I  had 
no  idea  why  this  should  be  the  case. 

My  work  itself,  on  the  other  hand,  interested 
me  immensely,  not  only  because  of  its  auto- 
biographical significance  but  for  its  intrinsic 
worth.  Its  general  subject,  the  relation  of  the 
intellect  and  the  will  in  the  act  of  judgment, 
was  one  that  I  intensely  desired  to  analyse  and 
understand.  The  Master's  view  of  it,  which  I 
was  incidentally  to  expound,  had  not  yet  been 
published  or  otherwise  explicitly  expressed,  so 
that  it  had  to  be  gleaned  from  his  general 
epistemological  standpoint.  I  say  gleaned 
because  the  processes  by  which  I  was  to  reach 
the  same  conclusions  as  another  mind  did  not 
seem  to  be  purely  logical,  but  in  part  at  least 
intuitive  as  well.  And  it  was  good  sport,  after 
girding  myself  with  the  Master's  general  phil- 
osophical preferences  and  prejudices  and  with 
those  of  his  theories  known  to  me,  to  attempt 
his  own  intuitive  leaps,  where  the  conditions 
for  sober  inferential  steps  were  incomplete. 
And  as  the  work  progressed,  there  was  added 


PHILOSOPHY 


to  my  enjoyment  the  increment  of  knowledge 
of  success,  and  with  this  the  cup  of  intellectual 
pleasure  seemed  full  and  overflowing.  Taddeo, 
whom  I  had  dismissed  from  my  mind  in  theory 
when  he  left,  was  now  absent  very  often  in 
reality.  I  reflected  that  either  I  was  far  more 
superficial,  emotionally,  than  I  had  known,  or 
far  stronger  of  will.  But  I  succeeded  quite 
easily  in  putting  from  me  the  temptation  to 
ponder  over  this  question.  ... 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 


i 


NFLOWING  time  finally  carried  on  its  crest 
the  important  day,  crowned  with  a  burning  sun 
that  was  still  ardent  at  five  o'clock,  as  I  slowly 
walked  to  the  University.  In  the  morning  I 
had  rehearsed  the  reading  of  the  paper  in  order 
to  time  myself,  and  the  little  paper  had  been 
very  precise  and  had  taken  the  allotted  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  almost  to  the  minute.  And 
as  I  walked  along  the  hot  streets  holding  its 
compact  body  in  my  hand,  it  all  of  a  sudden 
seemed  to  me  a  funny  little  thing,  so  light,  so 
slight,  so  frail  in  spite  of  the  many  elements 
that  had  gone  to  make  it  up  and  the  ener- 
gies which  compounded  them;  and  it  seemed 
ridiculous  that  this  little  paper  thing  should 
hold  the  power  to  make  any  real  difference  to 
anything  at  all.  And  presently  when  I  reached 
the  Seminar,  humour  spread  over  everything, 
the  hot  afternoon  and  the  stuffy  room  and  the 
perspiring  grave  faces  of  the  sixteen  who 
gradually  assembled,  and  especially  I  struck 
myself  as  fantastic  and  comical,  having  come 
here  fearfully  hot  and  uncomfortable,  and  as 

£137:1 


PHILOSOPHY 


chance  had  it,  in  a  white  sailor  suit  (though 
in  the  centre  of  the  continent),  to  read  a  trou- 
blesome and  more  or  less  superfluous  essay, 
just  because  I  desired  to  know  the  meaning 
of  life.  .  .  . 

The  Master  entered,  he  hot  also  and  grave; 
we  rose,  he  waved  graciously-dramatically, 
we  permitted  ourselves  to  sit  down  again,  the 
noise  of  the  settling  chairs  subsided,  and  silence 
and  heat  filled  the  room,  and  I  was  invited  to 
begin.  I  did  so,  and  no  evidence  of  any  form 
of  embarrassment  presented  itself  as  for  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  I  read  on  mechanically, 
while  my  unoccupied  mental  energy  was  pos- 
sessed by  an  awareness  of  the  presence  of 
seventeen  bodies  with  thirty-four  ears,  of  their 
movements,  their  occasional  coughs,  of  the 
sticky  heat,  the  bad  air,  the  fun  of  reading 
German  that  I  had  myself  composed,  and  of 
the  charm  of  a  novel  situation.  And  finally 
I  heard  my  voice  cease:  the  little  paper  was 
exhausted  and  done  for.  .  .  .  There  followed 
a  short  silence  and  then  a  warmly  compli- 
mentary criticism  on  the  part  of  the  Master, 
which  I  realized  I  had  expected  while  it  was 
being  uttered,  and  after  that  some  half  hour  of 
discussion,  and  the  Seminar  broke  up  for  the 

£138:1 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

term.  The  Master  left,  some  of  the  kindly 
disposed  of  the  sixteen  gave  me  congratulatory 
handshakes,  so  that  there  were  lacking  none  of 
the  external  signs  of  success,  and  I  gave  a  last 
long  look  at  the  dingy  little  room  in  its  summer 
suit  of  sunlight  and  dust,  and  left  it.  And  as 
I  walked  home  in  the  only  slightly  diminished 
heat  with  the  knowledge  that  my  little  though t- 
and-paper  contribution  to  the  forces  directing 
my  destiny  had  accomplished  all  that  could  be 
expedled  of  it,  the  whole  episode  nevertheless 
seemed  completely  finished  and  done  away 
with,  and  time,  space  and  consciousness  were 
quite  empty  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  when 
I  went  to  bed  I  admitted  to  myself  that  I  could 
not  think  of  a  single  thing  to  do  or  to  want  to 
do  on  the  morrow. 


139 


PHILOSOPHY 


D 


'URING  the  night  a  tremendous  storm 
broke  up  the  hot  wave  and  brought  a  cold,  grey 
and  wet  morning.  I  spent  it  writing  letters 
home  and  this  helped  me  to  forget  for  a  moment 
that  I  was  in  Freiburg  which  since  the  close  of 
the  Seminar  on  the  afternoon  before  seemed 
an  intolerable  place  to  be  in.  And  in  the  cold, 
grey  and  wet  afternoon  I  forced  myself  to  attend 
the  Master's  lecture,  —  one  of  his  last.  I  seated 
myself  in  the  back  of  the  room,  feeling  listless 
and  disagreeable,  and  the  odour  of  damp  coats, 
rubbers,  umbrellas  and  damp  persons  intensi- 
fied my  mood.  My  neighbour  on  one  side  was 
occupied  in  noisily  scratching  his  long  name 
into  his  portion  of  our  desk,  and  he  on  the 
other  side  continually  flourished  a  handker- 
chief saturated  with  bay  rum  about  his  face  and 
in  the  space  intervening  between  us.  "This  is 
too  much,  this  is  too  much,"  I  chanted  to  my- 
self internally  over  and  over  again,  in  order  to 
soothe  my  nerves  (instead  of  which  it  irritated 
them),  as  I  sat  with  my  eyes  on  my  note-book, 
conscious  that  my  almost  unbearable  peevish- 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

ness  expressed  itself  in  my  features,  and  wildly 
desirous  to  communicate  it  to  all  about  me 
and  so  to  get  rid  of  it,  and  not  knowing  how  to 
do  so. 

After  eternity  seemed  to  be  coming  to  an 
end  the  Master  entered,  and  upon  his  entrance 
I  looked  up,  and  on  the  way  to  the  "catheder" 
my  look  encountered  Taddeo.  I  felt  the  blood 
leave  my  heart  and  for  a  while  I  heard  nothing 
but  an  inner  voice  singing,  "  Taddeo,  Taddeo, 
Taddeo,"  unceasingly,  until  the  thoughts,  pale, 
thin  and  distant  and  shut  off  from  communi- 
cation, once  more  flitted  into  consciousness, 
and  after  a  while  I  knew  that  I  had  never  before 
felt  so  glad  to  see  anyone.  Placing  my  note- 
book on  my  lap  I  folded  my  hands  on  it  and  let 
my  enslaved  thoughts  go  on  their  badly  needed 
holiday.  And  every  now  and  then  they  re- 
turned and  together  with  my  eyes  rested  on 
Taddeo,  as  some  Greek  hero  or  demi-god  — 
my  memory  cannot  place  him  —  kissed  the 
earth  every  now  and  again  to  derive  fresh 
strength  from  contact  with  his  maternal  source. 

Out  on  their  holiday  my  thoughts  sang, 
"Your  friend  is  here,  your  brother  is  here, 
Taddeo  is  here."  But  "brother"  did  not 
sound  the  right  note,  and  I  thought  of  our 


PHILOSOPHY 


visit  to  the  cathedral  when  he  had  told  me 
about  himself  and  when  I  had  wished  I  were 
his  mother.  And  looking  at  him,  pale,  sad  and 
absolutely  quiet,  it  again  seemed  to  me  that 
he  was  very  young  and  I  very  old,  and  that 
he  needed  me  a  hundred  times  more  than  I 
needed  him,  and  I  felt  very  pitying,  tender  and 
maternal,  —  and  this  although  I  divined  that 
Taddeo  knew  exactly  what  and  how  he  felt 
about  all  things  he  cared  about,  and  thus  was 
far  more  mature  than  myself,  who  for  weeks 
had  not  missed  him  greatly  and  on  his  re- 
appearance could  not  let  him  out  of  the  embrace 
of  my  thoughts  for  a  moment.  .  .  .  And  never- 
theless the  caresses  of  my  thoughts  were  ma- 
ternal caresses  and  were  mingled  of  pleasure 
and  pain. 

And  all  at  once  it  occurred  to  me  to  question : 
why  had  he,  my  Taddeo,  who  was  attached  to 
me  as  I  to  him,  after  voluntarily  leaving  me, 
returned  to  me  in  the  publicity  of  the  class- 
room, so  that  the  happiness  of  reunion  was 
dissipated  through  intervening  and  unsympa- 
thetically  filled  space  and  time.  With  this 
question  in  my  mind  I  was  looking  at  him, 
when  abruptly  he  turned  his  head  in  my  direc- 
tion and  looked  at  me,  and  the  intervening 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

objects  shrank  into  nothing  and  in  the  greeting 
of  his  eyes  I  thought  to  read  the  explanation. 
And  I  suddenly  understood  how  stupid  I  had 
been,  and  I  suddenly  understood  how  Taddeo 
had  left  because  he  knew  better  than  I  did 
myself  that  I  needed  his  absence  for  my  work, 
-  and  with  an  oppressive  inrush  of  tenderness 
I  suddenly  understood  how  unselfish  was  his 
attachment  to  me.  .  .  .  And  I  was  overcome 
by  the  guilty  conscience  of  one  who  takes  love 
from  her  child  instead  of  giving  it;  and  the 
caresses  with  which  my  thoughts  touched  him 
now  were  those  of  a  repentant  mother  who 
needs  forgiveness. 

We  met  outside  the  University  Gate.  We 
greeted  each  other  with  smiles  and  walked 
through  the  street  silent,  and  there  was  in  the 
atmosphere  something  of  the  embarrassment 
that  possesses  near  relatives  when  an  unwonted 
separation  renders  them  self-conscious  at  their 
reunion,  no  matter  how  satisfactory  an  event 
it  may  otherwise  be.  When  we  were  out  of 
sight  of  the  University,  out  of  the  sphere  of  its 
influence,  and  no  longer  pre-eminently  students, 
as  it  were,  Taddeo  said : 

"You  did  not  write  to  me?" 

I    answered   impulsively,   "I   never  thought 

£143:1 


PHILOSOPHY 


of  it,"  and  was  punished  by  Taddeo's  pained 
eyes  and  quick  flush.  And  immediately  I  felt: 
"  Everything  is  wrong  once  more  and  if  Taddeo 
does  not  soon  get  over  this  awful  sensitiveness, 
I  shall  myself  fall  ill  of  his  flushes  and  his 
wounds";  but  I  gathered  together  the  remnants 
of  the  mother  sentiment  of  the  past  hour  and 
continued:  "It  must  have  been  because  I  never 
thought  of  you  in  any  positive  place,  not  even 
at  Frankfurt,  but  simply  as  gone  away,  as 
missing,  —  you  must  forgive  me."  And  I 
added  questions  about  Frankfort  and  the 
father's  friend  in  breathless  haste,  to  which 
Taddeo  made  no  reply,  so  that  silence  walked 
between  us  and  threatened  a  real  separation. 
"Taddeo,"  I  said,  and  I  suppose  there  was  fear 
in  my  voice,  "you  must  forgive  me.  I  know 
now  that  I  was  thinking  of  myself  alone,  —  of 
how  I  was  deprived  of  my  friend;  —  I  forgot 
to  think  of  you.  Now  that  I  have  you  again, 
my  Taddeo,  I  can't  understand  it  myself. 
Don't  make  me  say  more,  —  I  can't." 

"No,"  he  replied,  "do  not  say  more,  I  under- 
stand and  it  is  as  it  should  be.  You  had  the 
work  to  do  and  you  were  right  to  forget  all 
else;  I  ought  not  to  desire  it  otherwise.  But  if 
you  had  written  only  a  little  letter  it  would 

C  H4  3 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

have  meant  that  you  did  think  of  me  and  it 
would  have  made  me  content;  —  especially," 
he  added,  "because  I  was  quite  alone  after  all; 
my  father's  friend  did  not  come." 

It  was  a  soul  badly  wanting  a  little  apprecia- 
tion that  I  heard  back  of  the  matter-of-fact 
delivery  of  these  words  (thank  Heaven  that 
my  selfishness  has  not  entirely  dulled  my  per- 
ception, I  thought),  and  I  said,  "Taddeo, 
Taddeo,  you  are  too  good  to  me,  you  encourage 
my  selfishness;  —  and  you  stayed  in  Frankfurt 
all  alone  to  leave  me  to  my  work.  —  I'm  afraid 
you're  perfect,"  I  added  with  a  smile  to  which 
he  responded  in  kind  (thank  Heaven  for  that, 
I  thought),  and  sweetly  replied: 

"I'm  used  to  being  all  alone,  you  know,  and 
therefore  you  need  have  no  fears  about  my 
perfection."  (Repress  your  tears,  repress  them; 
I  ordered  myself.) 

Harmony  between  us  was  re-established,  and 
a  feeling  of  infinite  peace  and  of  infinite  fatigue 
filled  me.  The  sun  was  struggling  through  the 
clouds  and  the  wet  world  was  glittering  and 
Taddeo  was  ready  to  walk  through  it  with  me, 
but  I  went  home  and  rid  myself  of  my  tears 
and  my  joy  and  my  perplexities  and  my  fore- 
bodings in  sleep. 

CHS  3 


PHILOSOPHY 


i 


AROSE  refreshed  from  deep  sleep  in  the 
morning  and  amused  at  having  slept  in  my 
clothes  for  fourteen  hours  like  a  heroine  in  a 
real  novel  in  which  things  happen.  A  fresh 
summer  morning  in  a  newly  washed  frame 
greeted  me  and  I  was  to  resume  my  walks  with 
Taddeo;  ( —  I  called  them  my  life  with  Taddeo 
in  private).  But  alas,  once  more  a  new  period 
had  arrived:  our  future  plans  must  be  decided 
on.  I  knew  indeed  that  this  might  be  done  by 
myself  alone  quite  as  well  as  together  with 
Taddeo,  since  his  point  of  view  a  part  of  me 
could  perfectly  represent,  having  had  experi- 
ence of  his  unselfish  effacement;  but  in  spite 
of  this  and  in  spite  of  a  fear  that  we  might  be 
led  too  far  into  the  heart  of  things  if  we  were 
to  go  into  them  together,  I  owed  it  to  my 
friend,  I  thought,  to  take  him  by  the  hand 
and  let  him  walk  with  me  in  this  matter. 

Later  in  the  morning  we  strolled  out  of  the 
town  toward  the  north.  Our  road  led  along 
the  fringe  of  the  woods  and  was  elevated  a 
little,  so  that  one  had  a  view  of  the  railroad 

£146:1 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

tracks  running  parallel  with  it  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away  across  flat  country  that  stretched 
out  in  pale  green  softness  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  see,  a  simple  plain  dotted  with  villages 
and  ending  in  a  hazy  horizon  where  one  divined 
rather  than  saw  the  Vosges'  mountain  tops. 
Here  the  feeling  was  one  of  air,  expansion, 
distance;  and  Freiburg,  as  we  looked  back  at 
it,  from  being  a  place  near  the  centre  of  the 
universe  surrounded  by  walks  and  excursions, 
shrank  into  a  mere  point  on  the  railway  tracks, 
tracks  running  past  it  indifferently  in  both 
directions. 

"Don't  you  think,  Taddeo,"  I  said,  when  we 
shared  a  bench  and  from  under  my  blue  sun- 
shade surveyed  the  sample  of  the  world  around 
us,  "towns  of  importance  ought  to  have  railway 
tracks  running  into  their  stations  and  out  again 
on  a  parallel  line,  instead  of  through  them?" 

"To  suggest  that  they  are  worthy  of  being 
ends-in-themselves,  'termini  ad  quern/  and  not 
accidental  places  on  the  path  to  somewhere 
else?  Most  of  them  do  have  such  an  arrange- 


ment." 


"Don't  you  think  Freiburg  ought  to,"  I 
said,  "don't  you  think  our  'alma  mater'  is 
worthy  of  it?" 

C.M73 


PHILOSOPHY 


"That  is  quite  a  subjective  affair,"  he 
answered;  "for  you  Freiburg  is  a  most  im- 
portant town  because  it  contains  Rickert  and 
all  that  he  contains,  and  the  interpretive  powers 
of  Broderson  and  sights  and  sounds  that  you 
have  not  in  New  York;  for  me  it  is  important 
because  it  contains  you,  and  for  most  of  the 
other  students  because  these  railway  tracks  we 
are  speaking  of  lead  so  quickly  into  Switzer- 
land in  one  direction  and  into  the  Rheingau 
in  the  other.  But  from  an  objective  and  statis- 
tical view-point,  Freiburg's  value  lies  mainly 
in  the  relative  cheapness  of  life  and  comfort;  — 
at  least  since  the  days  of  her  Berthold  Schwarz 
who  discovered  gunpowder,  —  unless  you  con- 
sider that  Rickert  has  since  discovered  the 
relation  of  thought  and  reality?  ...  I  should 
otherwise  say  that  there  is  no  valid  reason  why 
the  tracks  should  not  run  negligently  past  the 
city  of  Freiburg." 

(How  much  less  Freiburg  means  to  him  than 
to  me,  I  reflected,  partly  envious  and  partly 
annoyed.)  "I  don't  think  you  ought  to  be 
allowed  to  return  to  this  'alma  mater/  ungrate- 
ful nursling  who  speak  so  slightingly  of  her," 
I  remarked  carelessly. 

"I  did  not  expect  to  be  allowed  to  return," 


AN    AUrOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

Taddeo  said  slowly.  (Now  we  are  in  the  midst 
of  things,  here  is  destiny  advancing,  I  told 
myself.) 

Taddeo  took  my  hand  in  both  of  his  and  I 
forced  myself  to  look  him  in  the  face  and  saw 
that  although  he  was  turned  toward  me  and 
was  very  close,  his  gaze  was  averted,  and  that 
he  had  the  immobility  of  one  who  is  listening 
for  far-away  sounds.  I  too  was  stricken  by  a 
sudden  powerlessness  to  think,  speak  or  act, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  that  unless  something  from 
the  outside  interposed,  we  should  never  be 
able  to  go  on  at  all.  We  sat  this  way  a  long 
time,  I  think,  and  then  life  flowed  back  with 
Taddeo's  remark,  "I  expect  to  leave  for  America 
in  a  few  days." 

("How  differently  everything  works  out  in 
detail,  but  back  of  this  and  beyond,  it  is  exactly 
as  I  know  it  is,"  my  thoughts  meant;  "I  don't 
know  what  to  say  now;  say  nothing  then,  don't 
interfere,  keep  quiet.") 

After  a  pause  Taddeo  continued:  "I  am 
going  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  country 
you  were  born  in  and  where  you  have  lived. 
And  you  will  have  plenty  to  tell  me  about  it." 

So,  —  blessed  though  flat-tasting  relief,  — 
we  spoke  of  his  trip  and  as  I  was  talking  me- 

C  H9  H 


PHILOSOPHY 


chanically  of  steamers,  of  climate  and  of  rail- 
roads, I  was  thinking  of  Taddeo's  course  of 
action  and  it  soon  took  on  the  colour  of  a  very 
sensible  and  suitable  one,  and  my  spirits  rose 
and  in  the  middle  of  an  account  of  the  differ- 
ent climatic  seasons  of  California  I  broke  off: 
"And  when  you  return  in  the  fall  and  have  seen 
the  United  States  and  their  inhabitants,  think 
of  how  we  shall  discuss  them  together.  Then 
you'll  get  my  past  experience  in  its  proper 
setting;  —  I  pity  you  already  for  all  you  will 
have  to  listen  to." 

"Yes,"  said  Taddeo,  "and  where  and  when 
will  it  be  that  we  shall  have  such  talks?"  — 
and  swept  us  back.  .  .  . 

"Taddeo,"  I  faced  him  and  we  sat  eye  in 
eye  and  with  interlaced  hands,  and  now  I  had 
no  more  private  thoughts,  but  only  a  passionate 
desire  to  break  down  anything  and  everything 
that  was  between  us,  discretion,  prudence,  or 
whatever  one  might  call  these  barriers,  so  that 
at  least  we  might  suffer  together  in  sympathy; 
"I  don't  know  where  and  when  it  will  be,  but 
somewhere  and  sometime.  I  must  work  here 
in  Freiburg  next  winter,  this  is  all  I  know  for 
the  present.  I  want  the  degree  and  what  it 
involves  and  means.  I  have  planned  it  thus 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

and  I  must  have  it  thus;  this  is  positive.  Be- 
yond all  this  I  don't  know  and  I  don't  think. 
I  don't  even  want  to  think  about  anything  else; 
it  pains  me  to.  If  you  are  here,  we  shall  be 
together  as  we  have  been,  and  half  my  thoughts 
and  my  time  won't  be  where  I  want  them. 
That's  all.  You  know  it  as  well  as  I  do." 

"I  suppose  I  do,"  Taddeo  mumbled,  as  he 
looked  deep  into  my  eyes  with  the  look  that 
hurt,  "Somewhere  and  Sometime;  I  shall  be 
looking  in  their  direction,"  and  he  smiled  the 
smile  that  hurt,  "but  it  is  a  very  vague  and 
hence  a  difficult  thing  to  do."  After  a  moment 
he  added,  in  his  brother-tone:  "I  do  know 
just  how  you  feel,  little  sister,  and  what  you 
said  was  what  I  expected  to  hear.  But  if  I 
must  leave  you  to  yourself  to  pass  your  exami- 
nation in  having  cleared  up  the  mysteries  of  a 
world  in  which  truly  friendship  has  no  voice, 
where  shall  I  go  then  next  winter  for  the  good 
of  my  own  intellectual  and  aesthetic  self?" 

So  he  steered  us  around  the  shoals  and  we 
were  once  more  safely  sailing  side  by  side, 
tamely  and  very  dejectedly,  but  still,  side  by 
side. 


PHILOSOPHY 


o 


'UR  few  remaining  hours  together  on  sultry 
August  mornings  were  spent  in  discussion  of 
his  American  trip,  to  which  I  contributed  the 
gift  of  detailed  information  with  a  perfunclori- 
ness  I  tried  to  disguise  under  the  manner  of 
eager  interest,  while  he  contributed  an  equally 
perfunctory  reception  of  this  information  to 
which  he  strove  to  give  the  appearance  of  warm 
gratitude.  What  we  both  did  with  sincerity 
was  to  take  long  if  surreptitious  last  looks  at 
our  cathedral  nave,  our  secluded  forest  nooks 
and  so  forth.  Until  the  day  of  his  departure 
was  upon  us.  ...  On  the  morning  of  his  last 
day  I  suggested  to  him  an  idea  that  had  given 
me  thrills  of  delight  since  its  inception,  and 
which  was  that  of  walking  to  Giintersthal  to- 
gether in  the  moonlight  that  night,  as  a  farewell 
ceremony.  And  his  eyes  lighted,  and  his  lips 
trembled  into  a  smile.  .  .  . 

The  day  seemed  to  linger  for  ever  and  ever 
as  I  stood  on  the  balcony  hoping  to  encourage 
night  to  come  on  more  quickly  by  watching  its 
advent.  But  unchanging  aeons,  immeasurable 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

waste  spaces  of  time  perdured,  until  finally, 
finally  the  air  darkened  visibly  and  the  white 
moon  began  to  silver.  An  excitement,  that 
somehow  was  tinged  with  the  feeling  of  the 
nocturnal,  took  possession  of  me  as  I  put  on  a 
black  and  silvery  cape  and  a  black  beret, 
relics  of  past  vanity,  which  seemed  to  me  to 
express  and  through  expression  to  emphasize 
the  adventuresome  midnight  flavour  of  our 
excursion,  besides  sensibly  harmonizing  with 
its  black  and  silver  setting. 

Stepping  out  on  the  balcony  again  I  watched 
for  Taddeo  and  after  a  time  I  discovered  him 
standing  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  in  a 
pool  of  moonshine  among  the  shadows  of  the 
chestnuts,  bareheaded,  with  face  upturned  to 
me  and  quite  immobile.  And  suddenly  the 
excursion  lost  its  character  of  an  escapade,  and 
as  I  hastened  down  to  him  all  effulgence  of 
carnivalistic  gaiety  was  extinguished. 

We  walked  swiftly  and  silently  along  the 
familiar  streets  whose  aspect  the  moon  had 
greatly  changed.  The  trees  that  flanked  them 
and  which  in  the  daylight  were  free  individuals 
only  accidentally  neighbouring,  in  the  night 
formed  an  intimate  family  of  strangely  similar 
and  domesticated  beings.  Darkness  must  breed 

1:153:1 


PHILOSOPHY 


intimacy,  I  reflected,  for  somehow  it's  impossible 
to  conceive  of  formal  and  conventional  inter- 
course in  the  dark. 

At  the  end  of  these  black  and  white  checkered 
streets  we  came  to  the  point  where  the  highroad 
went  straight  on,  and  the  meadows  lay  to  the 
right,  bathed  in  moonshine.  We  descended  into 
their  shimmering  green  and  grey  mass,  quite 
still  but  for  the  sounds  of  the  insects  at  our 
feet.  How  far  we  walked  through  these  fields 
and  for  how  long  I  did  not  know.  He  walked 
beside  me,  his  uncovered  head  lifted,  and  in 
his  light  clothes  his  outline  melted  into  the  cir- 
cumambient air,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  the 
reserve  and  aloofness  that  marked  him  in  the 
glare  and  bustle  of  the  day-world  had  dropped 
from  him,  and  that  in  this  soft  and  silver  and 
silent  world  he  was  at  home;  —  and  that  his 
absorption  was  now  aloofness  from  me.  .  .  . 
And  as  soon  as  this  notion  germinated,  I  could 
not  bear  to  have  him  walk  by  my  side  un- 
responsive and  far  away,  lost  in  intercourse 
with  the  night  about  him. 

The  flood  of  jealousy,  my  affection,  his 
charm,  the  insinuating  moonshine  and  the 
unfamiliar  strangeness  of  it  all  surged  over  me 
like  an  intoxication  demanding  its  own  expres- 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

sion,  and  as  we  walked  through  the  hours,  his 
arm  about  me  and  my  hand  in  his,  I  must  have 
told  him  all  that  I  had  thought  and  had  dreamed 
of  our  friendship  from  the  beginning.  And  I 
must  have  reproached  him  for  his  detachment 
and  have  recalled  to  him  how  on  reading 
Heine's  poem  of  the  melancholy  youth  alone 
in  the  night  I  had  thought  of  him,  and  how  it 
entranced  me  now  to  be  with  him  in  the  beauti- 
ful night,  and  I  reproached  him  again  for  the 
absence  or  the  distance  of  his  spirit  from  mine 
and  said  something  of  this  sort:  "Where  are 
you,  Taddeo;  your  arm  is  against  me  and  my 
hand  is  in  yours  and  my  thoughts  are  with  you 
and  to-morrow  we  are  going  to  part,  —  but 
you're  far  away." 

For  he  bent  his  head  to  mine,  and  he  answered 
so  low  that,  although  his  lips  were  close,  I 
barely  heard  him,  and  what  he  breathed  seemed 
more  like  thoughts  than  words: 

"Schone  Wiege  meiner  Leiden, 
Schones  Grabmal  meiner  Ruh', 
Schone  Stadt,  wir  miissen  scheiden  — 
Lebe  wohl !  ruf '  ich  Dir  zu. 

"Lebe  wohl,  du  heil'ge  Schwelle, 
Wo  da  wandelt  Liebchen  traut; 

C'553 


PHILOSOPHY 


Lebe  wohl,  du  heil'ge  Stelle, 
Wo  ich  sie  zuerst  geschaut. 

"Hatt'  ich  dich  doch  nie  gesehen, 
Schone  Herzenskonigin ! 
Nimmer  war  'es  dann  geschehen, 
Dass  ich  jetzt  so  el  end  bin. 

"Nie  wollt'  ich  dein  Herze  riihren, 
Liebe  hab'  ich  nie  erfleht: 
Nur  ein  stilles  Leben  fuhren 
Wollt'  ich,  wo  dein  Odem  weht. 

"Doch  du  drangst  mich  selbst  von  hinnen, 
Bittre  Worte  spricht  dein  Mund : 
Wahnsinn  wiihlt  in  meinen  Sinnen, 
Und  mein  Herz  ist  krank  und  wund. 

"Und  die  Glieder  matt  und  trage 
Schlepp'  ich  fort  am  Wanderstab, 
Bis  mein  miides  Haupt  ich  lege 
Feme  in  ein  kuhles  Grab/' 

I  thereupon  reproached  him  in  many  words 
and  painted  for  him  the  delights  and  the  beauty 
of  our  friendship  and  its  exigencies  in  many 
words  and  analysed  my  attachment  to  it  in 
many  words  and  rhapsodized  about  the  won- 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

derful  richness  and  fullness  of  life,  compre- 
hending youth,  ambition,  sympathy,  friendship 
and  affection,  and  explained  how  wonderfully 
much  we  still  could  learn  and  how  wonderfully 
far  we  still  could  grow;  in  short,  how  perfedt 
were  things  just  as  they  were.  In  my  painful 
eagerness  to  have  him  agree,  I  indeed  spoke 
many  words  and  repeated  them  over  and  over, 
always  appealing  to  him:  "Don't  you  feel  it, 
too,  Taddeo?"  And  he  invariably  answered: 
"I  can't  tell  you  what  I  feel."  And  finally 
when  spent  I  fell  into  silence,  he  added:  "But 
I  may  tell  your  hand,"  and  covered  the  hand 
he  held  with  kisses,  and  there  seemed  to  be 
nothing  more  worth  the  trouble  of  saying,  and 
I  was  aware  of  nothing  but  his  lips  on  my  hand 
as  we  walked  back  to  the  place  where  I  lived. 

When  we  separated,  I  put  my  arms  around 
him  and  kissed  him,  to  which  he  did  not  re- 
spond, and  I  must  have  closed  my  eyes,  be- 
cause I  took  with  me  as  a  last  impression  of 
him  not  his  image,  but  the  thrill  of  intimate 
contact  with  his  soul  through  the  touch  of  his 
body. 

I  sat  by  the  window  during  the  remaining 
hours  of  the  night,  and  the  sensations  of  the 
immediate  past  chased  one  another  through 

£1573 


PHILOSOPHY 


my  mind.  I  lived  them  over  again  and  I  mar- 
velled, as  in  memory  I  surveyed  the  experience, 
that  I  should  have  been  able  to  resist  making 
him  happy.  In  retrospective  imagination  noth- 
ing seemed  more  inevitable  than  to  have  said: 
"You  may  tell  me  what  you  feel,"  and  in  his 
embrace  to  have  thrilled  to  the  feeling  of  one- 
ness with  him.  But  reality  itself,  I  reflected, 
which  has  the  reputation  of  sweeping  away  all 
considerations  and  barriers  in  the  flood  of  its 
intensity,  for  me  at  least,  on  the  contrary,  set 
up  barriers,  perhaps  because  of  its  very  other- 
ness from  myself,  I  thought,  and  because  in 
its  quality  of  flowing  on  into  the  future  and 
embracing  in  its  every  pulse  an  infinite  com- 
plexity and  duration,  it  suggested  consideration 
and  engendered  restraint.  And  therefore,  I 
concluded,  I  had  found  it  possible  to  hold  him 
from  me  in  actuality,  while  in  imagination  I 
found  it  impossible  not  to  hold  him  in  my  arms 
and  forget  all  else. 

When  dawn  came  and  the  night  that  had 
been  so  wonderful  was  over  forever,  and.  I 
could  once  more  definitely  place  him  (whom 
the  night  seemed  to  have  engulfed)  at  his  rooms 
preparing  for  departure  in  an  early  train,  this 
slight  influx  of  peace  of  mind  together  with  my 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

deadly  weariness  brought  sleep  to  me.  When 
I  awakened  Taddeo  had  left  Freiburg.  .  .  . 

I  packed  my  trunks  and  went  for  a  farewell 
interview  with  the  Master.  No  one  in  the 
street  seemed  to  notice  that  I  was  in  a  trance, 
neither  did  the  Master  with  whom  I  settled 
the  details  of  the  following  winter's  work,  nor 
his  wife  when  I  said  "Auf  Wiedersehen"  to 
them  both,  nor  the  Kommilitonen  Brodersen, 
Schulze,  Gruntze  and  the  rest,  when  we  bade 
one  another  farewell  in  the  Seminar,  nor 
Familie  Rauscher,  when  I  left  the  next  day, 
nor  Marie,  who  wept,  nor  Johan,  who  escorted 
me  to  the  train. 

From  the  car  window  I  looked  my  last  at 
the  town  from  which  I  had  expected  so  much 
and  had  received  so  much  —  else;  I  thought 
of  how,  seduced  by  its  strangeness,  I  had  fallen 
into  a  state  of  passive  submission  to  its  charms, 
content  to  contemplate,  admire  and  enjoy 
every  concrete  experience;  of  how  I  had  tried 
to  shake  off  this  dominion  over  my  emotions 
by  bringing  my  mind  to  bear  on  my  experiences 
in  the  analysis,  dissection  and  location  of  this 
strangeness.  I  thought  of  how  I  had  partly 
succeeded  and  how,  as  my  intellectual  acquaint- 
ance with  them  grew,  their  fascination  dimin- 

£159:1 


PHILOSOPHT 


ished.  Of  how  satisfied  I  was  to  watch,  to 
learn,  to  steep  myself  in  philosophy,  of  how 
free  I  finally  felt  before  Taddeo  came.  How 
he,  Taddeo,  dazed  me  intellectually  and  ob- 
fuscated my  vision  by  standing  between  me 
and  the  future  and  past,  filling  time  with 
the  present.  How  the  essential  thing  for  me 
was  to  get  back  my  intellectual  clarity,  my 
outlook,  my  view  of  the  supreme  ideal  of  the 
reason.  At  any  cost.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  because  it  is  impossible  to  be  pessi- 
mistic in  a  train  rushing  to  unknown  places,  I 
felt  confident  that  the  mood  in  which  I  should 
re-enter  Freiburg  would  at  least  differ  from 
the  one  in  which  I  left. 


INTERLUDE 


PHILOSOPHY 


I  SPEND  long  hours  on  this  glittering  Brit- 
tany beach,  staring  out  upon  the  sparkling 
ocean,  or  across  the  bay  at  the  grey  and  gold 
ramparts  and  towers  of  the  ancient  town,  that 
through  some  trick  of  light  seem,  released  from 
their  attachment  to  the  earth,  to  be  striving 
upward  to  the  shining  sky.  Taddeo  is  out 
there  beyond  those  huge  masses  of  water,  be- 
yond days  of  blue  ocean  with  white  foamy 
billows,  and  monotonous  grey  ocean  with 
booming  waves,  and  turbulent  and  stormy 
blackish  ocean.  .  .  . 

As  the  waves  beat  against  this  shore,  so  the 
past  beats  upon  my  mind  in  waves  of  memories 
that  keep  my  spirit  informed  with  him.  .  . 
I  see  him  walking  across  the  bright,  smooth 
sand  of  this  beach,  and  against  the  blue  and 
golden  shining  haze  of  sky  his  silhouette  is 
bowed  down  with  melancholy  and  his  feet  sink 
into  the  ground  heavily,  connecting,  as  it  were, 
with  the  past  generations  of  human  beings 
whose  suffering  and  labour  produced  him.  And 

n  K*:! 


PHILOSOPHY 


unwillingly  I  suffer  with  him.  And  I  see  him 
against  the  nestling,  squatting,  solid  and  sub- 
stantial Freiburg  racing  past  with  the  spring 
of  a  Donatello,  erect,  free  brother  of  the  moun- 
tain pine;  and  unwillingly  I  rejoice  in  him. 
But  adroitly  I  manage  to  turn  my  eyes  from 
him  as  he  really  lives  and  breathes,  travel- 
ling in  resigned  but  unrelieved  loneliness  over 
there.  .  .  . 

And  so  I  lie  on  this  glittering  beach  remem- 
bering and  visioning,  —  facing  the  past  and 
facing  the  unreal,  —  until  exhausted  I  sink 
into  depths  of  self-deprecation,  calling  myself  a 
spinner  of  webs  fashioned  to  amuse  myself  alone, 
a  lover  of  my  own  free-floating  fancies,  vainly 
dreaming  what  I  intimately  know  into  fantastic 
and  unreal  shape.  And  I  resent  my  illegitimate 
enjoyment  and  habitually  I  end  it  by  picking 
up  the  discarded  Tolstoi  or  Nietzsche  or  Maeter- 
linck or  other  prophet  I  carry  with  me.  And 
he  appears  to  me  as  a  deliverer  from  the  sterile 
wilderness  of  dreams,  and  with  him  I  take  refuge 
in  my  rooms  where  no  vistas  of  illimitable  sky 
and  dazzling  light  encourage  and  confound  my 
fancy. 

So  the  summer  is  passing,  bringing  me  only 
a  physical  present.  My  spirit  lies  immersed 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

in  the  flow  of  memory,  or  smothered  in  the 
embrace  of  the  thoughts  of  the  great  minds  I 
am  reading. 

And  I  look  forward  eagerly  to  the  winter, 
when  I  shall  resume  life. 


TWO 


PHILOSOPHY 


D 


'EAR  TADDEO, 

I  have  been  here  for  three  weeks,  it  is  true, 
and  I  have  not  written  to  you,  it  is  true.  How 
is  this  possible,  as  Kant  would  put  it,  and  what 
are  the  a  priori  dispositions  or  forms  of  the 
reason  to  which  it  points?  I  am  not  in  an  in- 
trospective mood,  happily,  and  I  don't  recom- 
mend the  problem  to  your  speculation  either, 
for  as  you  know,  even  Kant  has  been  super- 
seded in  the  onward  march  of  fact  and  theory, 
and  although  your  part,  the  theory,  might 
express  eternal  verity,  given  stable  fact,  —  I 
am  the  fact  and  I  am  not  stable. 

Treating  the  three  weeks  historically  accord- 
ing to  the  latest  methodological  fashion  (I  am 
at  present  engaged  in  writing  a  paper  on  Rick- 
ert's  methodology,  immensely  difficult  and 
instructive),  I  begin:  I  approached  Freiburg 
in  the  train,  in  a  "Damen  Coupe  Zweiter 
Klasse,"  and  in  a  very  uncomfortable  mood,  — 
profoundly  bored,  and  saturated  through  and 
through  with  a  resentful  conviction  that  life 
should  never  repeat  an  experience,  that  on  the 


PHILOSOPHY 


contrary  it  should  be  an  habitual  affair  diversi- 
fied with  interspersed  unique  episodes.  My 
mind's  eye  fixed  itself  beyond  power  of  control 
upon  the  most  unattractive  features  of  Frei- 
burg's countenance,  the  cramped  orderliness  of 
the  whole  of  it,  the  smallness  and  stuffiness  of 
its  Horsale,  its  Seminar  and  its  Pension;  and 
I  dwelled  in  imagination  in  the  many  empti- 
nesses that  your  absence,  my  friend,  would 
create;  in  turn  on  the  Horsaal  emptiness,  the 
Seminar  emptiness,  the  emptiness  of  the  streets, 
and  of  the  fields  and  the  roads  and  woods,  and 
the  skies  and  the  views.  And  I  reflected  with 
some  degree  of  satisfaction  that  as  you  had 
never  been  in  my  rooms  they  at  least  would 
retain  their  former  ugly  plenitude.  Everything 
felt  void  and  qualityless  and  like  nothing,  and 
this  feeling  crowded  into  every  fibre  of  me  and 
crushed  me  into  a  sort  of  impersonal  receptacle 
of  itself. 

The  windowpanes  of  the  slow-going  car  were 
dirty  and  I  thought  it  was  drizzling.  And  when 
finally  we  arrived  at  the  Freiburg  station  at 
about  eleven,  the  same  boots,  Johan,  took  my 
luggage  (the  same  luggage),  and  I  decided  to 
walk  to  the  house  in  order  to  escape  a  same 
Droschke,  horse  and  driver. 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

To  my  great  surprise,  upon  emerging  from 
the  dark  and  damp  station  into  the  open  of  the 
town,  I  found  the  sun  shining  on  it  from  a 
dazzling  blue  sky,  the  air  crisp  and  tingling, 
and  men,  women  and  children  walking  quickly 
along  the  pavement  with  cheerfully  noisy  foot- 
steps that  sounded  like  little  explosions.  And 
the  wind  splashed  and  slapped  against  my 
face  as  I,  following  a  sudden  impulse,  likewise 
walked  briskly  and  noisily  toward  the  Giinters- 
thal  meadows  to  have  a  look  at  our  country. 

In  no  time  at  all  I  reached  a  view  of  it,  and 
dear  Taddeo:  the  hills  were  almost  denuded 
of  foliage,  —  only  yellow  and  reddish  frills  were 
sticking  to  the  trees  by  means  of  a  little  blue 
haze,  —  and  in  their  severe  autumn  dress  of 
brown  one  saw  their  sharp  outlines;  and  their 
chartlike,  geometrical  figure  in  the  now  visible 
regularity  of  their  arboreal  growth  did  not 
encourage  sentimental  dipping  into  the  past, 
but  called  up  by  association  vague  notions  of 
agricultural  chemistry  (once  facts  in  the  fore- 
ground of  my  mind),  and  still  vaguer  ones  of 
the  German  laws  for  forest  conservation. 

And  these  thoughts  inspired  me  to  hasten 
back  to  town  to  get  a  "  Verzeichnis"  at  Burgers. 
Walking  to  the  Pension  I  read  it,  and  it  awakened 


PHILOSOPHY 


a  keen  appetite  in  my  intellectual  organs,  so 
that  even  courses  such  as  "  Dogmengeschichte 
der  patristischen  Zeit,"  "Die  Ausbildung  des  so- 
terologischen  Dogmenkreises,"  "Otiskopischer, 
rhinolaryngoskopischer  Kurs,"  "Waldwertrech- 
nung  und  forstliche  Statik,"  "Historische  Gram- 
matik  der  russischen  Sprache,"  "Deutsches 
und  Badisches  Verwaltungsrecht,"  strongly 
appealed  to  me,  and  I  almost  despaired  at 
the  thought  of  missing  all  but  three  or  four 
dishes  of  this  wonderful  menu  of  several  hun- 
dred. In  such  grasping  and  greedy  spirits  and 
quite  revitalized  and  energized  I  reached  and 
entered  the  Pension  and  my  rooms.  So  buoyant 
indeed  was  my  mood  that  my  hopes  of  render- 
ing these  hideous  rooms  pleasant  survived 
even  the  sight  of  them,  and  I  immediately 
plunged  with  optimistic  ardour  into  the  first 
destructive  stage  involved  in  the  process.  You 
must  know,  my  Taddeo,  that  I  expect  to  enter- 
tain a  kind  of  private  Seminar  selected  from  the 
cream  of  the  official  one  in  this  study,  and  over 
a  samovar  or  a  French  coffee  machine  (  I  have 
not  decided  which)  to  discuss  the  values  and 
the  ultimate  laws  of  the  universe,  forgetting 
the  toil  and  suffering  of  humanity  without. 
This  is  what  lends  significance  to  the  covers, 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

cushions  and  lampshades,  the  coffee  set,  fresh 
curtains  and  other  devices  I  have  acquired 
with  infinite  boredom,  and  with  which  I  am 
trying  to  disguise  the  real  nature  of  this  room. 
And  I  have  partly  succeeded;  the  brown  and 
yellow  cretonne  and  the  brown  of  the  simple 
wallpaper,  in  which  I  induced  Herr  Rauscher 
of  "Nouvel  Art"  tendencies  to  "widerstrebend" 
experiment,  cover  the  individual  pieces  of 
furniture  as  with  a  "Tarnkappe,"  so  that  against 
the  background  they  sink  into  a  kind  of  oblivion. 
To  this  end  too  I  have  adopted  the  popular 
fashion  of  hanging  carbon  photographs  of  the 
Old  Masters  in  postage  stamp  style  and  trust 
them  to  keep  the  visitor's  eye  too  busily  en- 
gaged in  jumping  about  the  wall  to  really  see 
anything.  Into  this  brown  cloud  I  have  in- 
troduced an  occasional  rift  of  blue,  some  delft 
china,  some  Chinese  embroideries  and  so 
forth. 

But  to  return  from  the  scenery  to  the  plot: 
My  first  days  were  not  filled  exclusively  with 
shopping;  I  interviewed  Rickert  several  times, 
and  with  him  selected  my  minors.  One  of  these 
is  economics,  of  which  I  already  know  some- 
thing; but  try  to  guess,  Taddeo,  what  the 
other,  in  whose  choice  I  was  guided  by  the 


PHILOSOPHY 


exigencies  of  the  academic  time  table  exclu- 
sively, has  chanced  to  be?  It  is  mediaeval 
history;  can  you  think  of  anything  more  un- 
suited  to  my  permanent  mental  and  present 
temperamental  states  than  mediaeval  history? 
Indeed  I  became  reconciled  to  it  only  after 
deciding  to  consider  it  under  the  head  of  a 
moral  discipline.  So  now  you  may  picture  me 
twice  a  week,  between  two  and  three,  in  one 
of  the  unaired  parterre  court  rooms,  battling 
with  impatience  and  sleepiness  while  taking 
down  the  sentences  filled  with  mediaeval  lore 
that  fall  at  a  furiously  rapid  pace  from  the  lips 
of  Professor  Linke  who  is  an  unusually  gentle, 
kindly,  mild,  tolerant  and  "sympatique"  pro- 
fessor and  hence  quite  ungerman  in  tone. 
There  are  about  eighteen  students  in  attend- 
ance, mostly  catholic  theological  students. 
Professor  Linke  is  of  course  a  Catholic  as  well, 
and  I  count  on  this  to  make  the  course  look  up 
if  we  ever  get  to  the  Reformation,  and  I  remain 
awake.  Fuchs,  whom  I  hear  twice  a  week  in 
"special"  economics,  is  soporific  too,  and  as  he 
is  slow  and  dry  and  conservative  and  none  of 
the  agreeable  personal  things  Linke  is,  one 
cannot  forgive  him  for  nevertheless  keeping 
one  awake.  .  .  .  But  Schulze-Gaevernitz  is 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

fun.  He  has  enormous  classes  owing  to  his 
subject  and  to  his  popularity,  and  is  obliged  to 
lecture  at  the  Kaufhaus,  your  Kaufhaus  on  the 
Munsterplatz.  It  is  pleasant  to  walk  into  the 
ancient  house,  to  look  out  of  the  old  leaded 
windows  at  the  cathedral  on  a  snowy  morning, 
or  on  a  blue  one,  or  a  grey  one  for  that  matter; 
it's  even  romantic  for  some  reason  which  the 
lectures  on  mediaeval  history  have  not  yet 
revealed.  And  it  is  easy  and  pleasant  to  listen 
to  Schulze,  for  he's  clear,  concise  and  enter- 
taining, and  he  has  magnetism  and  apparently 
makes  the  young  students  feel  it,  for  they  listen 
to  him  not  only  as  students  to  their  instructor 
but  as  men  to  a  man.  In  fact  that's  it,  that's 
what  makes  him  magnetic,  he  isn't  professional 
teacher  at  one  moment  and  a  man  at  another 
time,  but  he's  both  together  all  the  time  and 
he  makes  what  he  touches  actual  and  per- 
sonal. —  And  he's  young  and  good-looking.  I 
like  him,  I  also  like  his  pretty  wife  and  his 
children  who  look  like  Romney  portraits. 

Now  I  come  to  the  great  and  important  news: 
Rickert  has  finally  agreed  to  the  subject  of  my 
dissertation,  a  criticism  of  James's  foundation 
of  his  religious  philosophy,  therefore  really  a 
critique  of  his  epistemology,  psychology,  ethics 

C 


PHILOSOPHY 


and  religion;  of  all  the  philosophy  he  has  so 
far  published.  —  You  were  right  in  predicting 
that  I  should  have  to  struggle  with  his  preju- 
dices, —  I  did,  but  I  won.  Several  interviews 
with  readings  of  my  translations  of  excerpts 
from  those  of  James's  doctrines  most  closely 
related  to  his  own,  and  perhaps  also  my  own 
enthusiasm  for  the  work,  converted  him  suffi- 
ciently to  enable  me  to  extract  his  unwilling 
consent,  which  fortunately  is  all  that  is  abso- 
lutely essential  at  the  present  moment,  al- 
though before  the  dissertation  is  written  and 
presented  it  would  be  to  my  advantage  to  have 
thoroughly  convinced  Rickert  of  its  being 
worth-while.  So  now  I  have  plunged  right  in, 
and  really  I  feel  as  tho'  I  were  surrounded  by 
a  new  element,  —  like  fire  in  its  warming, 
enlightening  and  consuming  qualities,  like  water 
in  refreshing  and  carrying  and  carrying-away 
power,  and  like  air  in  its  nourishing  and  stimu- 
lating character,  and  unlike  all,  in  that  it  is  my 
very  own  and  quite  unfree  to  others,  —  quite 
private.  The  consciousness  that  here  I  am 
fashioning  something,  however  humble  and 
insignificant,  that  no  one  else  could  possibly 
do,  gives  the  work,  while  I  am  engaged  on  it, 
a  nameless  charm  that  completely  satisfies  my 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

creative  impulse.    I  am  therefore  working  hard, 
practically  all  evening  and  every  evening. 

So  my  time  is  well  filled  with  twelve  lectures 
a  week,  Seminar  (for  which  I  am  writing  the 
methodological  paper),  repetitorium  in  eco- 
nomics, and  reading  for  these  lectures,  and  the 
dissertation.  The  only  time  my  thoughts  have 
for  travelling  without  a  prescribed  plan  or 
direction  or  terminus,  is  during  my  solitary 
afternoon  walk,  when  I  travel  around  the  ugly 
outskirts  of  the  town,  not  caring  or  rather  not 
daring  to  go  on  the  deserted  country  roads; 
while  they  —  my  thoughts  —  traverse  the 
beautiful  world,  for  which  Paris  is  as  good  a 
starting  point  as  any. 

If  you  do  not  send  me  a  real  letter  instead 
of  your  stingy  postals  I  shall  be  hurt;  at  least 
I  may  be  hurt. 

Your  busy  friend 

HENRIE 


PHILOSOPHY 


D 


'EAR  TADDEO, 

Since  your  last  (horrid)  letter  I  include  the 
Palais  Royal  in  my  daily  excursion;  before  that 
I  was  obliged  to  meet  you  in  some  unnamed  and 
unclaimed  spaces  so  indefinitely  located  that 
even  the  laws  of  gravitation  had  not  found 
them,  and  where  habitation  was  accordingly 
difficult  and  precarious.  How  wonderful  to 
live  in  the  Palais  Royal!  As  I  am  not  seeing 
your  rooms  I  imagine  them;  I  imagine  them 
garbed  in  pale  grey  and  gold  boiserie,  in  faded 
taffeta  hangings,  with  crystal  lights  and  oval 
paintings  of  the  i8th  century,  and  everywhere 
books  in  old  bindings. 

Mine!  Oh!  And  so  far  the  only  persons  to 
animate  them  are  the  Pension  people,  English 
and  American  families  for  the  most  part,  all  of 
whom  appear  to  be  here  either  because  someone 
else,  some  child  or  friend,  is  here,  or  by  the 
application  of  the  method  of  exclusion  because 
somehow  they  are  nowhere  else.  And  time  is 
plentiful  for  them  and  my  study  is  dangerously 
near  to  halting  and  directionless  footsteps. 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

At  first,  I  admit,  I  liked  their  coming;  they 
seemed  sufficiently  queer  to  be  perplexing  and 
sufficiently  nice  to  be  studiable  and  I  regarded 
them  as  opportune  and  not  distasteful  prey 
for  my  psychological  vampirism.  I  closely 
observed  them  in  the  casual  manner  of  life,  — 
I  mean  casual  in  the  sense  that  whatever 
happened  to  turn  up  in  or  of  them  was  what  I 
observed,  —  and  it  led  to  glimpses  of  little 
connections  here  and  there.  I  learned  how 
they  felt  or  thought  they  felt  about  various 
small  but  recurring  matters,  and  became  ac- 
quainted with  their  judgments  on  subjects  of 
daily  life,  for  instance  with  their  opinion  of  the 
quality  and  degree  of  their  clergyman's  elo- 
quence, of  the  comparative  merits  of  the  local 
cake-stores,  of  the  deficiencies  and  advantages 
of  our  Pension  and  the  amount  of  satisfaction 
to  be  derived  from  a  perusal  of  the  latest  popu- 
lar novelistic  time  and  taste-killer.  But  on 
attempting  to  penetrate  to  the  primal  soil 
from  which  these  flowers  of  thought  sprouted, 
I  seemed  to  strike  rock  bottom,  on  which 
flowers  do  not  grow,  or  else  soft  and  wobbly 
sand,  likewise  physically  inadequate. 

And  if,  substituting  a  more  scientific  pro- 
cedure for  these  haphazard  methods  of  observa- 

CI793 


PHILOSOPHY 


tion,  I  venture  outright  to  question  them,  I 
find  that  replies  to  questions  entirely  novel  to 
the  questioned  one  are  apt  to  be  highly  coloured 
by  the  dramatic  situation  of  making  up  one's 
mind  instantaneously,  of  endeavouring  to  ex- 
pand one's  horizon  enormously  in  five  seconds, 
as  it  were,  without  misrepresenting  oneself. 

And  yet  all  these  people,  these  card-playing, 
church-going,  embroidering  people,  who  in 
moments  of  exuberance  pick  or  buy  flowers  to 
express  their  mood  —  oh,  Taddeo,  I  try  to 
make  fun  of  them  and  I  do  truly  contemn 
them,  I  can't  help  it,  but  at  the  same  time  they 
impress  me  immensely,  for  they  seem  so  con- 
tented, not  perhaps  with  their  individual  fate, 
but  with  themselves  and  with  the  world  in 
general.  And  they  all  seem  to  be  in  possession 
of  so  much  certainty;  they  seem  to  marvel  at 
nothing,  and  they  have  no  faintest  suspicion 
how  insignificant  and  mechanical  are  embroider- 
ing and  bridge  and  sermons.  While  I  at  times 
cannot  even  fully  realize  that  such  things 
actually  exist;  and  the  thought  that  they  are 
voluntarily  done  by  people  who  are  real,  up- 
sets me  so  completely  that  I  see  in  myself,  all 
of  a  sudden,  a  ghost  from  a  world  of  fancies, 
a  ghoul  feeding  on  dead  matter.  Yes,  if  women 

£180:1 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

can  laugh  and  weep  and  beget  and  yet  enjoy 
embroidering  and  bridge  and  celebrate  the 
singing  of  their  spirit  with  the  contemplation 
of  fifty  pfennig's  worth  of  whatever  flowers 
happen  to  cost  that  much,  —  what  a  funny 
spectacle  she  offers,  who  spends  her  youth 
pushing  life  away  until  the  questions  of  its 
meaning,  and  of  goodness  and  truth,  shall  have 
received  illumination  from  her  own  spirit. 

And  they  sit  in  my  chairs,  the  Mrs.  Hales 
and  the  Misses  Plunketts  and  the  rest,  and  my 
chairs  seem  to  be  filled  not  with  fellow-beings 
but  with  problems,  baffling  and  insoluble  ones, 
and  they  oppress  me,  and  I  wish  these  people 
were  elsewhere.  .  .  . 

And  I  ask  myself:  Shall  I  ever  resemble 
them,  shall  I  ever,  when  the  fire  of  enthusiasm 
is  spent,  and  a  brooding  peace  has  settled  in 
and  about  me  and  all  things  are  subjectively 
equal  one  to  the  other  in  weight  and  in  charm, 
and  each  exists  only  in  relation  to  its  own  prac- 
tical necessities  and  is  bounded  by  its  own  use- 
ful moment,  shall  I,  too,  accept  things  as  they 
come? —  Shall  I  visit  people  because  they 
live  nearby,  and  read  books  because  they  are 
on  the  shelves,  and  buy  things  because  the 
catalogue  was  sent  to  me,  and  eat  things  be- 


PHILOSOPHY 


cause  they're  put  before  me,  and  love  people 
because  they  happen  to  love  me? — Shall  I 
become  an  accidental,  casual,  temporary,  in- 
different creature,  resigned  but  comfortable? 
And  if  I  am  in  no  danger,  why  can  I  so  vividly 
imagine  it  in  feeling  ?  — 

And  besides,  I  know  that  I  am  no  genuine 
adventuress.  ...  I  have  indeed  my  tremen- 
dous curiosities  and  they  urge  and  lead  me  into 
new  paths  all  the  time,  but  the  paths  are  new 
to  me  only;  they  are  the  wonderful  spiritual 
and  intellectual  conquests  of  the  ages.  And 
I  risk  nothing  in  these  chartered  regions,  for 
my  mind  is  agile  and  is  informed  with  curi- 
osity rather  than  with  purpose,  and  —  it  is 
travelling  without  my  body.  My  body  stops 
at  home,  quite  patiently  and  submissively  for 
the  most  part,  like  a  timid  wife  waiting  for 
her  husband  to  return  from  exploration,  in 
order  to  lead  her  forth  in  safety,  without  ex- 
perimental mistakes.  —  So  it  is  quite  certain 
that  I  am  no  adventuress.  ...  On  the  other 
hand,  I  think  I  may  be  a  vagabond.  Because 
on  all  trails  and  paths,  in  all  countries  and 
climes  I  am  after  all  but  an  admiring  stranger. 
The  very  notion  of  settling  irrevocably  in  any 
spot  and  breathing  permanently  one  kind  of 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

air  stifles  and  cramps  me.  —  But  perhaps  this 
also  will  pass  and  I  shall  some  horrible  day  be 
glad  to  identify  myself,  which  means  submerge 
myself,  in  and  with  some  larger  body  and  live 
and  breathe  through  it,  shaking  off  my  indi- 
vidual responsibilities.  But  I  don't  think  so: 
I  so  much  enjoy  being  a  vagrant  vagabond,  — 
it  feels  so  completely  like  freedom.  .  .  .  And 
I  so  much  enjoy  trying  to  be  a  philosopher.  .  .  . 
Whenever  I  speculate  on  such  things  in 
relation  to  myself,  I  end  by  wondering  how 
they  look  in  relation  to  you,  my  obsessing 
friend,  and  what  I  most  often  vision  in  answer 
is  yourself  with  a  sphere  of  some  translucent 
and  rarified  medium  circumfused  about  you 
and  like  a  nimbus  moving  with  you  and  guard- 
ing you  from  all  but  spiritual  influences.  And 
I  wonder  how  I  ever  got  through  to  you. 
And  so  I  wander  and  wonder  on  and  on  —  "en 
vagabonde."  And  after  all  I  have  examina- 
tions to  take  next  spring. 

HENRIE 


PHILOSOPHY 


D 


'EAR  BROTHER  TADDEO, 
You  are  right  to  scold  me.  I  deserve  it,  and 
yet  I  don't  quite  deserve  it.  For  your  poor 
sister  is  unjust,  I  think,  because  she's  embit- 
tered by  her  own  stupidity  in  having  failed 
with  these  people  whom  she  rejects,  and  be- 
cause she  feels  and  resents  her  failure  and  most 
of  all  because  she  doesn't  understand  it.  For 
I  don't  know  why  I  failed  and  I  am  asking 
myself  all  the  time  what  the  matter  may  be 
and  where  the  fault  lies.  Why  I  do  not  under- 
stand people  better  and  why  I  do  not  love  them 
more;  why  I  no  longer  get  the  feeling  of  en- 
richment and  content  in  intercourse  with  them. 
I  say  "no  longer,"  but  I'm  not  sure  that  I 
ever  did.  In  fact  I  now  incline  to  believe  that 
I  never  did,  but  simply  deluded  myself  into 
believing  that  I  really  got  in  touch  with  other 
souls  and  that  the  touch  was  an  embrace  that 
fertilized  and  bore  fruit.  However  this  may 
be,  I  don't  think  so  any  more;  there  now  seems 
to  me  to  be  something  lacking  in  myself,  and 
I  don't  know  what  it  can  be,  for  I  truly  believe 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

there  is  no  one  in  the  wide  world  (don't  smile) 
who  receives  new  acquaintance  more  hospitably 
and  bestows  on  it  more  attention  and  more 
interest  than  your  poor  sister.  I  sometimes 
wonder  what  some  person  to  whom  I  have 
spoken  for  half  an  hour  would  think  if  he  knew 
that  the  girl  he  met  and  forgot  lay  awake  at 
night  thinking  of  him  and  trying,  —  yes,  trying 
to  almost  be  him,  or  her.  Why  —  what  for 
—  I  don't  in  the  least  know,  but  I  do  know 
that  a  second  meeting  makes  it  very  evident 
that  I  haven't  succeeded.  Instead  I  get  the 
feeling  of  facing  a  wall  with  all  the  choice 
things  behind  it,  and  I  lose  interest,  and  the 
well  of  sympathy  dries  up  and  leaves  me 
thirsty  and  disheartened. 

What  is  it,  my  Taddeo,  my  one  perfect 
friend,  my  one  perfect  experience,  what  can 
it  be  that  I  expect  of  others  with  a  palpitating 
heart  and  shining  eyes?  What  awakens  this 
directionless  ardour  of  my  spirit?  When  I  ask 
this  of  myself  I  find  no  answer  that  will  bear 
the  form  of  language.  For  it  cannot  be  that 
I  thirst  for  the  admiration  and  sympathy  of 
my  fellows,  I  who  take  pride  in  recognizing  the 
greater  beauty  of  spending,  I  who  lavish  atten- 
tion boundlessly.  .  .  . 


PHILOSOPHY 


But  if  it  be  not  this  crude  and  simple  desire 
that  animates  me,  yet  it  must  be  some  kind  of 
a  passion  for  communion  with  the  other's 
spirit,  some  vague  expectation  of  enriching 
myself  with  its  endowments  and  sharing  in  its 
treasures.  Although  I  am  not  conscious  thereof 
in  feeling,  it  must  be  that  my  attitude  is  in 
the  last  analysis  one  of  asking  rather  than  of 
offering,  for  how  could  I  otherwise  come  away 
from  human  encounters  with  the  heavy  sense 
of  failure  and  emptiness.  .  .  . 

It  must  be,  I  think,  that  I  approach  my 
neighbour  much  as  the  literary  critic  approaches 
the  great  man  he  deals  with,  thinking  to  ob- 
jectively weigh  and  sympathetically  evaluate,  to 
admire  and  to  worship,  while  what  he  really  does, 
and  what  we  all  do  with  the  great  one  whom 
we  know  through  his  work,  is  to  take  from  him 
what  we  can  lay  minds  and  hands  on,  and  to 
use  what  we  have  taken  to  fill  our  empty  spaces, 
to  bolster  up  our  weak  spots.  Thus  we  refresh 
ourselves  in  his  joys  and  purify  ourselves  in 
his  sorrow  and  formulate  through  him  our  own 
vaguer  selves.  But  our  duty  towards  him  we 
consider  generously  performed  if  occasionally 
we  mention  those  sides  of  his  personality  for 
which  we  have  no  use.  I,  too,  must  be  suffering 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

from  some  such  delusion,  that's  all.  —  And 
suddenly  I  remember  that  there  was  a  time  in 
my  childhood  when  it  was  difficult  for  me  to 
get  away  from  myself,  and  that  this  self-con- 
sciousness vitiated  my  feeling,  and  that  I  was 
aware  of  it  and  uneasy  about  it  and  ashamed 
of  it.  But  it  led  to  self-analysis  and  I  under- 
stood enough  about  myself  before  I  had  out- 
grown my  childhood  to  realize  that  my  ever 
playing  and  changing  commotion  of  spirit 
needed  steadying  and  deepening;  and  when  I 
was  old  enough  I  recognized  in  the  study  of 
the  most  profound  human  thought  the  instru- 
ment for  conforming  that  superficial  but  ob- 
sessing emotional  self  to  the  ideals  of  character 
supplied  by  my  critical  and  evaluating  self: 
stability  in  feeling,  infinity  in  sympathy,  eter- 
nity in  love  and  sincerity  in  their  expression.  — 
And  here  I  am  back  again  in  the  doubts  of 
my  almost  forgotten  adolescence,  wondering 
whether  I  have  achieved  any  of  these  things, 
or  whether  self  is  still  blocking  the  channels 
to  other  souls. 

I  do  not  know  why  I  ask  you,  because  you, 
my  Taddeo,  are  the  one  exception;  you  are 
so  living,  so  large,  so  complete  a  fact  to  me  that 
your  shadow  obscures  all  idea  of  self,  and  you 


PHILOSOPHY 


came  so  suddenly  into  my  heart  that  it  had 
no  time,  perhaps,  to  consider  the  formalities 
attendant  upon  your  reception.  But  I  suppose 
I  ask  you  because  you  know  me  better  than 
anyone  does  and  may  be  able  to  console  me  a 
little.  Tell  me  that  I  am  intelligent  and  sym- 
pathetic enough  to  find  my  brothers  and  sisters 
and  our  common  world  lovable  and  that  I  am 
not  a  silly  girl  who  sees  but  herself  in  whatever 
she  regards.  Tell  me  that  I  am  growing  not 
only  mentally  but  emotionally,  and  am  not 
shrivelling  into  a  condition  of  boredom  and 
degout  with  everything  but  philosophy.  Be- 
cause I  think  I  am.  Tell  me  why  I  am  so 
unhappy  and  suddenly  feel  so  little  at  home 
in  the  world. 

Oh,  Taddeo,  my  friend,  it  is  good  for  me  that 
you  exist. 

H. 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 


OU  said  all  those  sweet  and  almost  wise 
things  to  comfort  me,  you  dear  one.  But  they 
are  not  true,  least  of  all  for  you.  When  you 
think  of  others,  you  think  of  them  and  not  of 
yourself  along  with  them,  and  when  you  love, 
you  love  the  object  of  your  love  and  not  your 
own  act  of  loving.  — 

But  to  me  it  at  least  seems  to  be  true  that 
myself  is  the  final  objective  of  all  that  goes 
from  me,  and  of  course  since  my  recent  re- 
discovery of  this  hidden  vice,  I  have  diligently 
sought  for  exonerating  explanations.  And 
there  is  one  that  flashes  through  my  conscious- 
ness like  an  ignis  fatuus  and  is  gone  before  it 
can  be  grasped,  and  yet  it  gives  me  a  sense  of 
being  the  real  one  and  of  intending  one  day  to 
linger  long  enough  to  enlighten  me!  For  the 
interval  I  have  excogitated  a  temporary  general 
theory,  and  as  Socrates  is  not  available  to  whose 
attention  and  correction  you  would  surely  recom- 
mend it,  I  submit  it  to  yours,  wisest  of  youths. 

"If  it  be  true  that  I  never  think,  never  speak, 
never  dream,  never  imagine  anything  not 

£1893 


PHILOSOPHY 


connected  with  myself,  if,  with  whomever  I 
communicate,  I  myself  am  at  one  end,  if,  what- 
ever I  sense  or  feel  I  immediately  compare 
with  myself  or  use  for  myself,  if,  in  a  word,  I 
am  omnipresent,  why  is  it?  Is  it  because  I 
admire  myself  so  continually  ?  No.  Do  I  love 
myself  so  constantly?  No.  Am  I  of  such 
tremendous  consequence  in  my  own  eyes?  No. 
Simply  it's  because,  poor  creature,  I  am  the 
only  one  I  know  at  first  hand.  I  simply  have 
nothing  else  with  which  to  work;  such  as  I  am, 
I  am  my  only  tool:  wedge  and  borer,  violin 
and  voice  all  in  one.  Through  my  poor  body, 
senses  and  intelligence,  the  infinity  of  the 
greater  world  of  which  I  thus  am  the  part  and 
the  whole  must  enter.  Does  it  not  dignify 
this  little  personality  to  be  the  medium  be- 
tween my  spirit  and  the  universe,  and  does  it 
not  render  it  worthy  of  the  study,  the  care  and 
the  love  I  lavish  on  it  ?  —  What  its  limitations 
are  I  have  not  yet  discovered,  for  I  am  very 
young,  and  the  world  is  still  pouring  through 
me  with  a  mighty  rush  and  din;  —  but  some- 
times when  this  music  of  growth  is  swallowed 
up  in  the  silences  of  night  and  of  inactivity,  I 
turn  my  eyes  inward  and  seem  to  shrink  and 
shrink."  .  .  . 

CI903 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

At  present,  however,  I  am  hopefully  facing 
my  work  and  it  is  progressing  properly.  I  am 
now  working  up  the  German  phases  of  my 
dissertation;  I  mean  I  am  reading  up  the  Ger- 
man literature  bearing  on  my  subject.  The 
English,  which  is  in  the  majority,  I  have  fortu- 
nately done,  otherwise  I  should  be  in  trouble, 
for  the  library  here  is  almost  devoid  of  modern 
English  and  American  works.  At  the  same 
time  the  essay  is  slowly  taking  form  and  it  is 
wonderful  to  watch  it  grow  and  become  a 
thing-by-itself,  and  yet  to  know  that  it  is  all 
myself  and  my  doing.  But  fortunately  I  do 
not  think  of  this  interestingly  contradictory 
situation  while  I  am  at  work,  or  I  should  prob- 
ably stop  to  wonder  at  it,  and  there  would  end 
my  book.  And  I  do  feel  as  if  I  were  getting  at 
the  heart  of  things,  occupied  as  I  am  in  the 
exposition  and  the  critical  appraisement  of  a 
quite  modern  doctrine  of  the  nature  of  truth 
and  its  relation  to  action  and  to  action's  stand- 
ard, goodness.  Intellect  and  Will,  Head  and 
Heart,  Is  and  Ought,  these  terms  seem  indeed 
to  express  the  fundamental  problem  whose 
solution  will  clear  up  that  of  the  relation  of 
Thought  and  Reality  as  well.  And  though  at 
present  I  am  but  at  the  stage  of  comparative 

C  191*1 


PHILOSOPHY 


study  and  of  formulation,  the  critical  part  is 
completely  outlined  in  my  head. 

There  is  frost  in  the  air  of  Freiburg  and  snow- 
flurries  are  frequent  and  the  days  have  shrunk 
to  their  smallest  size.  The  early  darkness  helps 
to  shut  out  the  sensible  world  of  colour  and 
form,  so  that  all  the  forces  of  consciousness  can 
concentrate  on  the  inner  thought.  The  busy 
summer-morning  world  flooded  with  sunlight, 
and  the  hushed  world  of  the  summer  night 
flooded  with  moonlight,  in  which  you  and  I 
were  friends  in  the  flesh,  are  dreamy  memories 
growing  vaguer  all  the  time.  Instead,  I  hold 
you  a  friend  in  the  spirit  for  my  comfort  and 
pleasure,  and  Taddeo,  —  it  seems  very  wonder- 
ful and  sometimes  too  beautiful  to  be  true  that 
you  should  be  so  completely  my  friend.  For 
though  I  know  that  there  is  something  about 
me  that  makes  you  feel  that  I  belong  to  you, 
as  there  is  something  about  you,  of  which  I 
feel  the  possession,  I  can't  really  imagine  how 
you  or  anyone  can  be  humanly  drawn  to  me, 
because  to  myself  I  seem  to  be  nothing  more 
than  a  tendency,  a  becoming,  a  striving.  I 
know  that  a  part  of  me  is  constantly  stopping 
altogether  to  watch  the  rest  go  on;  to  an  out- 
sider I  must  appear  an  unattractive  mass  of 

1 192  3 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

prohibitions  and  uncertainties,  and  even  to 
myself  I  have  no  aesthetic  charm.  Nothing 
that  is  not  a  self-inclusive  unity  can  have  any. 
Some  day,  perhaps,  when  I  shall  have  become 
a  personality.  — 

Yet  you,  my  Taddeo,  can  it  be,  —  it  just 
occurs  to  me  and  how  pleasurably,  that,  pos- 
sibly, from  a  vantage-point  and  at  a  distance, 
even  a  disjointed  and  disharmonious  thing  may 
present  itself  as  some  sort  of  whole;  —  can  it 
be  that  you  see  me  in  a  larger,  in  a  connected, 
way,  as  one  sees  a  curved  road  from  a  moun- 
tain top?  Can  you  thus  see  my  progressive 
stops  and  flights  together?  And  can  you  thus 
have  received  a  presage  of  my  future  per- 
sonality? Dear  Taddeo,  dear  friend,  how 
grateful  I  am  to  you  for  being  drawn  to  me, 
it  gives  me  the  delicious  illusion  of  having 
already  arrived  somewhere.  y 

HENRIE 

1  .O. 

I  have  had  a  real  party,  —  at  which  Pro- 
fessor Schulze-Gaevernitz  and  Conner,  Weiss, 
Schulze,  and  Gruntze  discussed  real  things  over 
the  coffee  cups  just  as  I  forewished.  I  did 
enjoy  the  afternoon,  especially  in  that  it 
blotted  out  the  previous  Plunketty  ones. 

£193:1 


PHILOSOPHY 


M 


Y  DEAR  TADDEO, 

I  know  I  didn't  write  you  about  our  carnival 
and  it  is  certain  that  we  had  one.  I  meant  to 
do  so  once  or  twice,  but  when  I  tried  to  fix  my 
impressions  they  ran  through  my  fingers  and 
out  of  the  pen  point  and  away.  After  all,  you 
see  a  carnival's  essence  is  its  froth  and  bubble, 
and  the  charm  of  it  lies  in  the  fact  that  because 
of  its  ephemeral  nature  it  must  be  taken  immedi- 
ately without  being  turned  over  in  the  mind. 
And  what  can't  bear  inspection  before  con- 
sumption surely  can't  bear  it  after. 

The  best  I  can  do  for  you  is  to  sketch  the 
bare  outlines  of  what  I  saw,  leaving  myself 
out,  because  really  it  all  meant  nothing  to  me 
and  amused  and  refreshed  me  just  because  it 
was  a  detached  and  meaningless  episode.  — 
So  for  your  sake  I  quaff  the  stale  draughts  with 
closed  eyes. 

On  the  day  of  the  procession  along  the  streets 
some  English  ladies  and  myself  went  to  my 
milliner  who  has  showrooms  on  the  first  floor 
of  a  house  on  the  Kaiserstrasse,  possessing  a 

£'943 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

large  balcony.  The  sun  was  shining  through 
big  dramatic  white  clouds,  it  wasn't  too  cold, 
and  the  street  was  bustling  with  life.  Its 
centre  was  filled  with  slowly  moving  floats  and 
carriages  full  of  costumed  and  masked  people 
and  alongside  of  them  crowds  were  walking 
and  running  and  throwing  confetti.  The  most 
popular  disguises  were  Pierrots  and  Pierrettes, 
peasants,  Mexicans,  Indians,  Spaniards  and 
weirdly  successful  monkeys.  Everyone  was 
having  a  good  time  with  everyone  else,  the 
confetti  fights  were  fast  and  furious  though 
well-mannered,  and  over  it  all  floated  a  lot  of 
confused  music  of  various  kinds,  mingled  with 
shouts  and  cries  and  laughter.  The  sidewalks 
were  black  with  participating  onlookers  and 
so  were  the  windows  of  the  houses;  and  there 
was  a  little  snow  left  on  their  ledges  on  the 
north  side  of  the  street,  and  there  were  bright 
draperies  suspended  from  them,  and  it  all 
looked  clear  and  shining  and  intimate  and 
immensely  gay  and  entertaining  like  a  child's 
picture  book. 

As  we  stood  on  the  balcony,  watching, 
we  noticed  that  all  at  once  the  crowd  below 
ceased  to  flow,  like  a  river  that  has  suddenly 
been  dammed,  and  multitudes  of  faces  turned 


PHILOSOPHY 


toward  our  house  and  confetti  was  flung  at  it 
and  music  blown  toward  it.  We  asked  our- 
selves what  in  the  world  could  have  happened 
and  tried  to  peer  down,  when  suddenly  a  head 
appeared  over  our  balcony  and  we  jumped 
back  in  amazement,  and  then  shoulders  followed 
and  a  masked  Pierrot  climbed  over  and  re- 
moved a  bunch  of  flowers  from  his  mouth  and 
laid  it  at  my  feet.  Mrs.  Sullivan  immediately 
discovered  that  blood  was  trickling  from  his 
temple  and  she  almost  wept  over  the  wound  and 
the  romance,  and  insisted  on  taking  him  into 
the  hat  shop  to  minister  to  him,  the  hero  who 
had  braved  the  perils  of  a  perpendicular  wall 
to  the  plaudits  of  the  public,  and  been  foully 
attacked  by  confetti  "en  voyage."  Three  or 
four  matrons  bustled  about  with  cold  water 
applications  for  his  scratch,  and  the  Pierrot, 
whose  mask  had  been  removed  and  who  was 
a  pretty  boy,  —  one  of  the  Baltic  set,  — 
sprawled  grinning  with  satisfaction  on  the 
black  and  white  striped  sofa  amid  hats  and  pink 
boxes,  while  I  stood  at  a  distance  with  his 
flowers  in  my  hand  watching  these  foolish  pro- 
ceedings. While  this  was  still  going  on  three 
of  his  crowd,  Pierrots  likewise,  came  up  (by 
the  stairs,  they),  and  presented  me  with  their 

CI963 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

bouquets,  and  as  they  wore  masks  it  was  quite 
according  to  etiquette  for  us  to  converse.  But 
rather  than  repeat  to  you  or  to  anyone  or  even 
to  myself  the  nonsense  we  exchanged  I  would 
let  myself  be  hanged  and  quartered.  .  .  . 
After  a  while  the  hero  was  out  of  danger  and 
once  again  masked  and  I  thanked  him  for  his 
entertaining  performance,  and  all  of  them 
danced  off  to  other  adventures,  and  we  returned 
to  our  balcony.  That  same  evening  they 
attempted  to  serenade  me  from  the  street  and 
I  sent  a  request  out  to  them  to  desist  on  ac- 
count of  the  boarding  house  and  the  guests 
and  the  public  spectacle  and  because  I  didn't 
want  it  done,  and  they  gracefully  acquiesced 
and  so  it  ended  in  a  few  moments.  But  they 
looked  pretty  in  the  light  of  the  street-lamp, 
slim  and  chalky-white  Pierrots  twanging  their 
mandolins  under  a  huge  black  umbrella  and, 
all  around,  the  coarse  snowflakes  falling  heavily. 
For  a  moment  one  forgot  that  they  were  but 
self-satisfied  youths  out  on  a  tame  adventure, 
light  hearted  because  making  believe,  and  one  re- 
membered the  real  Pierrot  who  was  said  to  have 
playfully  faced  tragedy  until  it  did  him  to  death. 
Furthermore,  inquiring  friend,  there  was  a 
masked  ball  the  next  night  to  which  all  Frei- 

C'973 


PHILOSOPHY 


burg  went  —  from  the  Dean  of  the  University 
and  the  head  of  the  regiment  to  Marie  and 
Johan's  colleagues  (so  I  should  imagine,  but  I 
can't  be  sure).  I  do  know  that  Herr  Rauscher 
(the  man  who  keeps  this  Pension,  you  remember) 
served  us  with  beefsteak  and  potatoes  at  supper, 
wearing  his  usual  beard,  and  at  the  ball  appeared 
in  a  shaved  condition  in  order  to  have  his  bit 
of  fun  with  his  lady  guests.  If  this  be  not 
delightfully  naive  simplicity  of  humour,  what 
then  is,  oh  Parisian  friend  who  interrogate 
me  on  the  carnival  in  Freiburg. 

At  the  ball  I  realized  for  a  few  hours  how 
many  potential  characters  I  owned,  and  on  the 
whole,  I  really  think  the  one  you  know,  Taddeo, 
is  as  good  as  any  and  you  need  not  feel  that 
you  have  missed  much  in  missing  the  others. 
Should  you  think  so  nevertheless,  I  may  some 
day  be  induced  to  let  them  all  out  of  their 
cages  to  entertain  so  appreciative  a  spectator 
as  you,  and  it  need  not  necessarily  be  carnival 
time,  you  know,  nor  need  we  wear  disguises.  .  .  . 
On  the  other  hand  it  may  be  that  by  that  time, 
having  contributed  their  several  shares  to  the 
final  resulting  character,  they  all  may  have 
faded  away  and  died  like  exhausted  slaves  did 
after  carrying  their  stones  to  the  pyramids. 

c  198  3 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

And  lest  you  some  day  reproach  me  for  hav- 
ing withheld  from  you  similarly  important 
information  concerning  a  man  who  comes  here 
a  good  deal  just  at  present,  and  whom  one 
might  not  inaptly  describe  as  the  personified 
spirit  of  the  carnival,  I  herewith  introduce  him 
to  you.  His  name  is  Baron  Clement  Beckover, 
and  as  he  has  an  American  mother  he  is  pe- 
culiarly well  qualified  to  help  me  with  my 
dissertation  in  a  linguistic  sense.  His  business 
is  to  charm  out  of  it  the  English  twists  and 
turns  that  lie  coiled  in  it  here  and  there.  And 
he  considers  himself  quite  an  accomplished 
charmer,  which  is  not  unreasonable  consider- 
ing that  he  is  good-looking,  musical,  travelled, 
well-informed  and,  alas,  humorous.  So  hor- 
ribly, so  persistently,  so  cynically,  so  indis- 
criminately and  so  genuinely  humorous,  that 
he  is  without  the  power  of  taking  anything 
seriously,  and  whatever  he  touches  shrivels 
into  triviality.  Yes,  his  humour  adls  exactly 
like  Amfortas'  spear  in  the  Venusberg  garden. 
(This  latter  sounds  like  a  beer-restaurant  doesn't 
it;  also  the  effecl:  of  his  humour.)  It  is  too  bad 
for  him,  because  it  must  draw  life  to  a  mo- 
notonous flat  level;  but  for  me  it  is  a  tonic. 
When  we  are  not  working,  I  sit  and  laugh  with 

3 


PHILOSOPHY 


him  and  forget  my  real  self  I  am  so  anxious 
about,  and  my  real  world  I  take  so  seriously,  — 
temporarily  transformed  into  a  two-dimensional 
being  in  an  environment  of  stage  scenery,  all 
front  and  no  depth.  Here  we  play,  until 
satiated  but  refreshed  I  return  to  my  three- 
dimensional  reality,  leaving  him  behind  in  his 
two-dimensional  world,  perfectly  satisfied,  poor 
soul,  for  he  has  forgotten  that  there  is  any 
other,  supposing  he  ever  knew  it. 

So  much  for  the  carnival. 

As  for  your  other  inquiry,  yes,  of  course  I 
am  happy.  I  am  happy  because  I  am  learning, 
learning  wonderful  things  every  day  and  every 
hour!  Why,  the  knowledge  alone  of  what 
there  is  to  know  and  that  one  knows  next  to 
nothing  is  marvellous,  and  after  every  new 
discovery  of  some  new  ignorance  of  mine,  I 
feel  like  a  goddess!  Can  I  say  more? 

Well,  yes,  very  occasionally  I  am  discour- 
aged. ...  I  do  sometimes  feel  that  we  are 
being  kept  in  ignorance  as  children  are  by  their 
nurses,  and  that  whereas  they  grow  up  and  out 
of  the  tutelage  of  stupid  tyrannical  authority, 
we  cannot  escape  from  nature,  for  if  she  be 
stupid  and  tyrannical  the  dreadful  consequence 
is  that  we  are  the  same,  being  one  with  her. 

C  2O°  3 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

How  she  comes  to  become  conscious  of  herself 
in  us,  one  of  her  forms,  is  indeed  a  logical  mys- 
tery. When  I  strike  upon  this  hard  and  im- 
penetrable stuff  in  thought  I  feel  my  mind 
crumbling,  and  a  dreadful  weakness  creeping 
down  from  it  through  my  whole  body  and 
being,  and  nothing  any  longer  seems  worth 
while.  My  very  desire  for  knowledge  falls  to 
dust  and  for  a  moment  I  admit  that  if  the  will 
to  live  consisted  in  the  will  to  know  it  would 
be  permanently  paralyzed.  For  a  moment  I 
feel  the  potency  of  other  instincts,  and  incline 
to  believe  that  nature  has  indeed  favored  them 
in  having  granted  to  them  satisfactions  which 
she  has  denied  to  our  curiosity.  And  I  then  un- 
derstand why  most  men  feel  more  alive  when 
living  the  life  of  the  senses  and  the  emotions: 
because  in  such  life  they  realize  and  bring  to 
some  completion  the  process  they  initiate.  .  .  . 
But  I  also  see,  as  they  do  not,  that  in  satis- 
faction and  in  completion  they  in  the  end  deal 
destruction  and  death  to  their  instincts,  whereas 
in  the  life  of  the  intellect  there  is  at  the  very 
least  unceasing  flow  of  life  toward  the  un- 
attainable. And  I  comprehend  that  the  un- 
attainable has  value  and  charm  precisely  because 
it  is  the  never  drying  source  of  desire,  because 

£201  3 


PHILOSOPHY 


it  fascinates,  because  it  goads  on,  because  it 
removes  all  limits  from  the  imagination,  be- 
cause, in  a  word,  it  eternally  engenders  life. 
And  I  conclude  that  without  a  doubt  I  should 
prefer  the  intellect  for  a  false  mistress  to  the 
emotions  for  an  indulgent  wife.  —  But  never- 
theless, oh  Taddeo,  how  wonderful  it  would 
be  if  we  could  escape  from  the  prison  of  our 
human  limitations  and  could  get  below  or  above 
or  beyond  the  confines  of  our  special  kind  of 
being,  —  of  life,  —  and  instead  of  blindly 
accepting  or  refusing  it,  see  it  as  it  is;  —  if 
we  could  but  taste  the  flavour  of  perfect  knowl- 
edge and  divine  ourselves  in  relation  to  that 
otherness  for  which  we  cannot  make  words, 
and  thereby  see  revealed  the  meaning  of  all 
we  suffer!  What  high  adventurers,  what  gods 
we  should  be! 

But  being  blind  except  for  two  human  eyes, 
we  are  indeed  forced  to  accept  what  we  see 
with  them.  And  therefore  life  itself  must  be 
our  fundamental;  no,  not  life,  but  human  life, 
our  kind  of  life,  which  is  the  condition  of  our 
experience  of  other  lives.  And  it  appears  to 
me  as  nothing  short  of  miraculous  that  we 
should  have  such  a  wealth  of  life  to  study,  and 
this  qualitative  infinity  seems  no  more  mirac- 

C202  ] 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

ulous  than  the  extraordinary  and  bewildering 
fact  that  this  diversity  of  form  stands  before 
our  intellect  ready  made,  as  it  were,  to  be  com- 
prehended and  utilized  by  the  intellect  in  the 
interest  of  that  same  life  that  has  so  wonder- 
fully gotten  on  without  the  intellect  for  a  long 
space  of  time,  and  has  then  suddenly  at  a 
certain  time  given  birth  to  it.  That  so  much 
that  is  understandable  as  well  as  so  much  that 
is  un-understandable  has  been  "given"  to  us, 
this  is  the  real  and  encouraging  miracle,  and  I 
believe  it  is  you  who  first  revealed  it  to  me,  my 
Taddeo. 

And  trying  to  deflower  a  miracle  of  its  mystery 
is  fun;  —  and  I  am  at  present  in  the  happy 
mood  of  finding  even  the  flinging  of  mere 
guesses  good  sport,  for  if  one  pays  close  atten- 
tion one  can  feel  the  spirit  give  a  little  and 
stretch  a  little  every  time  a  guess  is  flung,  even 
if  it  hit  nothing.  So  that  I  even  wonder  whether 
I  am  not  beginning  to  value  for  its  own  sake 
the  exhilaration  occasioned  by  the  gymnastics 
of  the  spirit!  But  I  hope  not.  — 

Yes,  I  think  I'm  happy. 

HENRIE 


[203:1 


PHILOSOPHY 


OU  seem  silently  to  accuse  me  of  indiffer- 
ence to  your  book,  you  foolish  boy.  Yet  you 
must  know  that  I  am  not  indifferent  to  any- 
thing at  all  that  touches  you;  you  must  simply 
desire  through  some  mystifying  whim  to  hear 
me  say  so,  you  noumenon  you,  you  static 
sculptural  being  (I  am  calling  you  names), 
you  complete  and  perfect  sphere  that  holds  a 
certain  quantity,  myself  among  other  things 
thank  Heavens,  and  no  more,  and  off  whose 
curves  all  else  slides!  —  Fortunate  soul,  you 
indeed  may  be  indifferent  to  things  because 
thus  you  either  comprehend  them  or  you  don't 
comprehend  them.  Not  I.  Not  to  anything, 
much  less  to  you,  my  delight,  my  beautiful 
flower  (I  am  calling  you  names),  my  fragrant 
and  honey-laden  flower,  who  without  greater 
effort  than  turning  your  face  to  the  sun  are 
nourished  by  it  to  beauty  and  fragrance.  While 
I,  feeling  like  an  untamed  dynamic  force,  must 
eagerly  and  excitedly  and  for  some  misty 
purpose  flutter  ceaselessly  about,  poor  little 
butterfly,  tasting  honey  here  and  tasting  honey 

£204] 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

there,  while  destiny  may  be  preparing  —  who 
knows  —  to  give  to  me  repose  or  death  in 
the  heart  of  some  beautiful,  some  fragrant, 
some  honey-laden  flower.  .  .  . 

Indeed  I  expect  great  things  of  your  book,  I 
even  expect  it  to  clear  up  for  me  the  subject  of 
art,  which  impresses  me  as  the  remotest,  most 
intangible  and  tenuous  of  all  material  for 
thought.  Philosophers  seem  not  to  have  been 
able  to  fashion  new  concepts  into  which  to 
catch  it;  their  sympathy  is  perhaps  too  feeble 
or  their  habits  of  thought  too  fixed;  while 
artists  who  deal  with  the  theory  of  their  prac- 
tice appear  not  to  have  any  habits  of  thought. 
Indeed  whenever  these  latter  use  the  word 
"truth"  —  and  they  have  a  passion  for  it  — 
they  transfix  my  brain  with  it,  as  they  used  to 
transfix  good-looking  St.  Sebastian's  body  with 
arrows,  and  I'm  sure  I  make  the  same  kind  of  a 
face  with  all  those  stabbing  little  words  piercing 
me.  For  here  "nous  autres"  have  for  thousands 
of  years  been  seeking  to  clarify  the  concept 
"truth,"  and  here  they  take  it  up  and  sling  it 
about  like  common  glue  to  make  their  dis- 
connected notions  stick  together.  Let  them 
explain  themselves  and  their  intentions  if  they 
find  it  necessary,  but  when  they  propound 

3 


PHILOSOPHY 


general  theories  of  artistic  truth  and  beauty 
and  expression,  make  them  at  least  read  some 
dictionary  for  a  definition  of  their  terms.  And 
though  literary,  musical  and  dramatic  artists 
have  to  please  great  numbers  of  the  general 
public  while  "fine"  artists  need  please  but  a 
few  persons,  no  one  being  able  to  sell  a  picture 
to  more  than  one  buyer,  it  is  the  latter  who 
most  insistently  inform  us  of  how  to  think  of 
them,  in  interviews  and  in  essays  full  of  the 
word  "truth."  .  .  .  Give  them  our  permission 
to  paint  and  to  sculpt  in  any  fashion  they  like, 
and  if  not  totally  expressed  thereby,  to  dance, 
to  compose,  to  sing  and  to  write  in  addition, 
but  forbid  them  to  use  the  word  "truth"  with 
the  simplicity  with  which  they  use  "blue"  and 
"red."  Tell  them  that  simplicity  of  mind  may 
be  in  place  in  self-expression  called  artistic,  but 
not  in  that  called  intellectual  or  scientific.  Tell 
them  we  too,  the  scientists  and  philosophers, 
are  expressing  ourselves  in  thought,  and  that  it 
is  to  the  class  we  aspire  to,  which  has  struggled 
with  the  difficulties  of  thought  since  the  brute 
age  of  man,  that  they  owe  the  thrice  refined 
concepts  with  which  they  so  ingenuously  play, 
such  as  "truth."  Tell  them  that  every  time 
they  bandy  and  throw  about  this  little  word 


AN    AUrOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

they  torture  it,  they  torment  and  agonize  its  im- 
mense soul,  accustomed  as  it  is  to  dwelling  in  high 
places,  in  the  minds  of  Aristotles,  of  Brunos,  of 
Galileos,  Spinozas  and  thousands  of  others  who 
dedicated  their  lives  to  truth's  service. 

And  tell  me  what  the  relation  between  art 
and  beauty  may  be;  whether  the  aesthetic 
thrill  with  which  we  respond  to  a  work  of  art 
is  the  same  in  kind  as  the  one  with  which  we 
respond  to  natural  beauty,  or  whether  beauty 
is  but  one  of  art's  parents,  or  even  nothing 
more  than  an  attribute  that  art  may  have  in 
the  same  fortuitous  sense  in  which  nature  may 
possess  it.  I  myself  am  inclined  to  the  latter 
theory:  that  beauty  is  an  objective  condition 
by  which  we  account  for  a  certain  feeling  we 
receive  whether  from  natural  or  from  artistic 
objects  and  that  it  has  no  other  necessary  con- 
nection with  art.  I  should  indeed  go  so  far 
as  to  say  that  artists  are  rather  less  susceptible 
to  beauty  than  non-creative  persons;  for  what 
they  are  chiefly  interested  in  is  their  vision  and 
its  expression.  The  thrill  you  derive  from  shar- 
ing the  vision  of  another  is  not  I  think  the  thrill 
that  accompanies  the  entrance  of  the  beauty 
of  a  landscape  or  of  a  person  into  your  spirit; 
this  latter  is  more  akin  to  love  with  its  promise 

£207  3 


PHILOSOPHY 


of  blissful  absorption;  the  former  to  possession 
with  its  exciting  enlargements.  And  from  the 
very  fact  that  man  is  the  author  of  it,  it  becomes 
tinged  with  an  intellectual  admiration  deter- 
mined by  a  certain  amount  of  critical  percep- 
tion of  its  purpose  and  its  technique. 

In  fact  I  am  wildly  curious  about  your  book, 
and  palpitatingly  interested,  and  all  the  more 
so  because  I  find  it  remarkable  that  you  should 
be  able  to  write  it,  and  indicative  of  an  inter- 
esting dissimilarity  between  our  temperaments 
and  outlooks.  I  know  you  will  want  to  deny 
this,  so  I  shall  prove  it  to  you,  you  false  brother! 

Listen  then :  It  is  I,  the  woman,  who  am  the 
intellectually  orientated  of  us  two.  For  you 
are  content  to  rest  in  your  confidence  in  the 
value  of  art,  as  anarchistic  Weiss  rests  in  his 
unquestioned  conviction  of  certain  moral  ideals 
of  his  own,  —  while  I  am  the  sceptic  taking 
for  granted  nothing  but  the  value  of  truth, 
that  is,  of  the  clearness  of  the  inquiring  proc- 
esses of  thought,  expecting  from  these  final 
judgments  on  the  value  of  my  inclinations, 
beliefs  and  ideals.  And  by  value  I  mean 
capacity  for  furtherance  of  life.  If  you  should 
object  that  this  last  formulation  implies  a 
second  unproved  assumption,  I  admit  that 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

certainly  it  claims  life  itself  to  be  the  ultimate 
good.  But  this  is  a  far  less  "practical"  and 
more  "  voraussetzungslos "  standpoint  than 
yours  or  Weiss's,  who  take  for  granted,  as 
special  values,  art  and  unrestraint,  which 
already  comprehend  the  general  values,  life 
and  thought,  as  logical  presuppositions. 

In  this  sense  you  are  indeed  the  male  me- 
chanical temperaments;  but  you  must  now  see 
how  incorrect  is  the  appellation  "theoretic," 
which  is  eulogistic  ally  conferred  on  you  in 
distinction  to  that  of  "practical,"  reserved  for 
my  sex.  For  you,  once  holding  an  ideal  which 
you  accept  without  question  as  absolute,  be 
it  art  or  social  construction  of  a  special  kind, 
or  the  research  of  problems  created  by  the 
acceptance  of  such  ideals,  —  you  then  con- 
tract yourselves  into  instruments  subservient 
to  these  ends,  and  become  mechanical,  objective 
and  practical  to  that  extent.  While  we,  to 
whom  life  in  its  most  quantitative  and  simple 
form  is  the  ultimate  value,  are  ever  theorizing, 
ever  trying  to  find  out,  to  think  and  rethink 
and  readjust  the  possible  means  to  its  further- 
ance. So  much  so,  that  we  believe  that  instincts, 
intuitions,  desires  and  impulsions  must  all  be 
examined  as  to  their  relation  to  life:  as  to 

C209:] 


PHILOSOPHY 


whether  they  are  real  conditions  of  the  desire 
and  the  strength  for  life,  or  illusory  ones  that 
in  the  end  sterilize  and  destroy  it. 

Life  then  is  valuable  in  and  of  itself,  we  say, 
and  truth,  goodness  and  beauty  derive  their 
several  values,  if  they  have  any,  from  life- 
furtherance.  But  life,  even  in  its  most  formal 
sense,  unless  it  become  a  mere  abstraction  in 
our  heads,  is  always  particular,  concrete  and 
qualitative,  and  in  each  of  its  manifestations  it 
is  diverse  and  has  its  own  conditions  of  exist- 
ence. Wherefore  the  conditions  of  increase  or 
growth  are  infinite,  and  the  task  of  finding  out 
what  they  are  is  likewise  a  progressive  and 
infinite  one  and  implies  constant  rearrange- 
ment and  reconstruction  and  correction  and 
discovery.  So  that  people  who  want  to  find 
this  out  are  indeed  theoreticians;  experimental 
thinkers  in  the  most  accurate  sense.  Unless, 
indeed,  they  too  specialize  on  some  one  phase 
of  life  and  making  a  fetish  of  this,  lose  their 
interest  in  life's  great  stream,  and  sojourn  in 
their  little  pool  where  they  become  practical 
instruments  for  its  exploitation. 

You  have  the  greater  simplification  to  your 
credit  and  for  your  ease:  art  is  valuable, 
human  life  is  its  necessary  condition,  hence 
C  210] 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

life  is  valuable.  Progress  demands  an  equi- 
librium between  the  two:  art  shall  therefore 
be  cultivated  only  up  to  the  point  of  endanger- 
ing life  in  its  most  quantitative  sense.  —  Sub- 
stitute science  or  goodness  or  religion  and  you 
get  an  apparently  workable  plan. 

But  how  can  you  rest  content  with  your 
arbitrary  estimation  of  art;  hardly  an  estima- 
tion because  you  really  apply  no  standards, 
but  only  dogmatize,  saying:  art  is  a  value, 
and  meaning  (because  ex  definitio  you  can't 
mean  art  is  life-furthering)  art  ought  to  be 
cultivated.  Your  weakness  is  manifest,  because 
whys,  wherefores,  on  what  grounds,  who  says 
sos  crop  up  and  fall  over  you.  Whereas  I  need 
but  to  take  frankly  anthropomorphic  ground, 
saying:  life  is  the  condition  of  all  human 
adlivity,  sensibility  and  feeling;  whoever  wants 
to  think,  to  feel,  to  do,  to  condemn,  acclaim, 
affirm  or  negate,  must  necessarily  accept  life. 

I  remember  being  much  impressed  by  the 
analysis  of  a  lecturer  on  the  relation  of  science 
and  morality.  He  made  the  point  that  a 
scientist  could  not  consistently  place  himself 
beyond  the  pale  of  morals,  because  the  recipe 
by  which  a  man  is  converted  into  a  scientist 
includes  honesty,  accuracy,  patience,  self-criti- 


PHILOSOPHY 


cism,  modesty  and  many  other  conventional 
virtues,  wherefore  he  who  values  science  and 
its  pursuit  must  value  these  qualities.  So  he 
said.  I  however  find  this  necessity  to  be  only 
partially  compelling  in  such  a  case,  for  if  these 
virtues  be  accepted  because  of  instrumental 
importance  only,  they  might  in  other  cases 
when  not  leading  to  an  end  desirable  in  itself 
logically  be  rejected.  The  man  whose  ultimate 
value  is  science  cannot  even  examine  such  a 
question;  there  is  no  approach  to  it  from  his 
sphere.  Unless,  indeed,  he  should  go  so  far 
as  to  claim  that  all  that  furthers  science  is 
absolutely  valuable,  —  honesty  and  patience,  for 
instance,  —  even  in  cases  when  their  exercise 
sacrifices  life.  And  then  he  is  in  the  untenable 
position  of  sacrificing  the  very  condition  of 
science,  life  namely,  to  science. 

The  trouble  lies,  it  seems  to  me,  in  our  over- 
simplification of  the  complex  and  ever  changing 
world  and  here  I  am  in  accord  with  pragmatic 
viewpoints.  Life  appears  to  me  so  varied  that 
it  becomes  dangerous  to  abstract  its  similarities 
to  the  extent  that  formal  ethics  does.  The 
tools  for  the  furtherance  of  life  in  one  situation 
fail  to  work  successfully  in  another,  and  the 
infinite  task  of  philosophy  is  to  inquire  into 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

their  relations  to  one  another,  and  to  estimate 
as  closely  as  the  shifting  and  increase  of  life 
permits,  the  degree  and  kind  of  their  utility. 
The  very  fact  that  we  are  beings  with  a  definite 
past,  heredity  and  character,  should,  I  think, 
give  pause  to  those  who  dream  of  the  power  to 
transcend  the  factual  and  the  historical,  and  get 
into  the  regions  of  pure  deduction  and  determi- 
nation of  values,  and  then  proceed  to  new  con- 
structions. The  anarchist  who  thinks  to  begin 
anew  by  sweeping  aside  all  the  works  of  man, 
thus  breaking  with  the  trammels  and  impurities 
of  tradition,  ignores  but  cannot  escape  the  fact 
that  man  himself  is  a  survival,  a  descendant,  a 
tradition,  a  character,  in  exactly  the  same  sense 
in  which  he  is  a  new  individual  determining  the 
future:  namely  vitally,  actually,  in  fact. 

Life  is  saturated  through  and  through  with 
values  everyone  of  which  has  a  relative  legiti- 
macy or  had  one  at  some  time.  The  thing  to 
find  out  is  what  their  relative  measure  is,  to 
discover  which  of  them,  Medusa-like,  petrify 
and  carry  death  to  him  who  looks  on  them. 
This  is  the  task  of  the  philosopher,  you  aes- 
thetician,  you  scientist,  you  specialist,  you 
dear!  —  Goodnight  — 

HENRIE 


PHILOSOPHY 


o 


F  course  I  do  see,  my  Taddeo,  that  you 
have  been  able  to  take  art  for  granted,  for  the 
reason  that  you  are  well  endowed  for  it  and 
your  intuitive  grasp  has  brought  you  into 
immediate  relations  with  it.  Whereas  my  own 
approach  to  philosophy  was  mediate  and  led 
through  painful  personal  experiences,  through 
the  discovery  of  my  deficiencies,  disharmonies 
and  enslavements.  You  have  never  wished  to 
believe  this  and  I  haven't  taken  pains  to  per- 
suade you,  thinking  that  the  final  end  which 
we  shared  was  so  much  more  important  than 
motives  and  causes  lying  in  a  dead  past. 

But  recently  that  past  has  continually  been 
arising  and  surging  clamorously  against  the 
threshold  of  attention,  so  that  it  cannot  be 
denied  admission.  And  so  for  your  conversion 
I  extract  one  of  my  former,  young,  selves  who, 
though  she  had  vanished  from  my  organism 
and  even  from  my  memory  years  ago,  has  now 
managed,  through  having  squeezed  herself  into 
a  diary,  to  re-clothe  herself  in  reality  and  make 
me  understand  her  position  in  my  evolving 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

history.  I  recommend  her  to  your  sympathy 
with  the  sense  of  entrusting  to  you  the  confi- 
dences of  a  child  who  almost  made  a  mistake 
in  addressing  them  to  me  and  who  is  better 
off  in  your  hands,  my  Taddeo.  —  I  leave  the 
English,  which  had  had  but  one  year's  growth 
on  its  native  soil,  untrimmed.  — 

Sunday  Eve. 

Dec.  2Stb. 

OVER  a  month  has  passed  since  I  have  writ- 
ten last;  I  ought  to  have  much  to  say,  but 
I  haven't.  I  shall  not  write  all  my  everyday 
experiences  as  in  the  last  book.  No,  I  shall 
try  to  give  expression  to  my  thoughts.  My 
thoughts!  I'm  afraid  I  shall  not  get  further 
than  to  the  second  page,  in  that  case.  Yes! 
I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I  think  very, 
very  seldom,  that  when  I  do  so  my  thoughts 
are  not  such  as  they  ought  to  be.  I  have  very 
many  doubts.  Very  many!  I  think  I  want  to 
be  good  and  noble,  to  form  my  character.  And 
when  I  think  why  I  want  to  be,  I  find  it  is  more 
ambition  than  anything  else.  And  what  is 
ambition  but  something  more  than  vanity. 
Just  now  I  looked  to  see  whether  the  page  was 
almost  finished.  I  didn't  mean  to,  but  I  couldn't 


PHILOSOPHY 


help  myself.  That  is  very  discouraging  indeed. 
Then  how  must  I  be  to  be  noble  and  at  the 
same  time  intelligent.  My  expressions  are 
very  clumsy  but  I  think  in  later  life  at  any 
time  I  will  know  their  meaning.  When  I  am 
silly  or  angry  or  anything  else  I  ought  not  to 
be,  my  excuse  is,  I  am  natural.  When  I  am 
otherwise  I  feel  that  I  am  not  natural,  that  I 
am  more  or  less  playing  the  hypocrite.  When 
I  look  upon  anything  in  a  different  way  than 
I  usually  do  I  feel  the  hypocrite,  and  I  fear 
others  think  I  am.  —  Still  it  is  not.  Now 
that  all  my  life  I  have  been  as  I  have  been,  I 
have  not  power  nor  right  I  think  to  try  to  make 
a  change.  The  truth  is  I  get  all  mixed  up. 
Sometimes  I  think  it  is  best  to  be  natural. 
Then  again  I  think,  I  would  like  to  be  better 
than  I  am  when  I  am  natural.  Then  comes 
the  question  why?  Is  it  for  my  own  sake,  or 
is  it  to  be  liked  and  admired  by  others  ? 

I  suppose  I  must  wait  patiently  for  the  time 
to  come  when  my  ideas  become  more  clear  and 
settled,  perhaps  then  I  will  be  able  to  tell  right 
from  wrong.  Christmas  has  passed,  how  dif- 
ferent from  Christmas  of  other  years.  ...  I 
almost  feel  like  talking  of  the  " happy  days  of 
my  childhood"!  And,  still,  perhaps  I  ought 

C  216;] 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

to  be  happy  because  now  S.  is  with  her  relatives 
and  how  much  she  has  gone  through,  and  I  am 
complaining  about  a  trifle!  I  fear  this  is  only 
a  sentiment  of  a  moment  and  will  not  influence; 
and  I  fear  it  is  not  quite  natural.  I  don't 
know!  It  is  one  of  my  doubts!  ...  I  have 
tried  to  make  friends  at  school.  I  got  up  a 
French  class.  We  have  given  it  up  for  some 
time,  but  expect  to  commence  after  the  holi- 
days. I  see  it  is  impossible  to  make  friends. 
I  like  the  girls;  I  have  fun  with  some,  talk 
earnestly  with  others,  but  I  can't  be  their 
friends.  I  like  A.  S.  best.  She  is  in  her  character 
far  my  superior.  She  is  earnest  and  as  true  as 
any  girl  I  ever  knew.  I  might  confide  fully 
in  her  and  trust  her  as  myself — better  I'm 
afraid  —  but  then  comes  the  time  I  want  some 
fun  and  I  feel  out  of  place.  If  I  am  earnest  all 
the  time,  I  feel  the  hypocrite.  It  is  too  bad. 

If  I  am  with  a  lively  and  not  very  deep  girl, 
after  having  a  great  deal  of  fun,  laughing  and 
talking  a  good  deal,  I  see  how  silly  it  is,  I  feel 
ashamed,  I  can't  go  on  that  way  because  I 
don't  think  it's  right.  Then  I  don't  know,  I 
doubt.  .  .  . 

If  at  any  time  in  later  days  I  read  this,  and 
I  feel  inclined  to  laugh,  I  hope  I  will  suppress 


PHILOSOPHY 


it,  for  tho*  it  may  seem  ridiculous  and  silly,  it 
is  now  written  and  meant  earnestly,  very  ear- 
nestly  indeed.  Goodnight.  — " 

March  30. 

HALF  a  year  has  passed  and  I  take  up  the 
pen  to  write  once  more.  I  looked  over  the  last 
few  pages  and  think  I  have  made  some  progress 
in  distinguishing  right  from  wrong. 

I  have  a  friend,  at  least  I  would  like  to  call 
her  friend,  who,  I  think,  wrill  have  very  much 
influence  over  me.  She  is  a  lovely  girl,  so  good, 
perhaps  too  good  for  me.  ...  I  am  too  harsh 
in  criticizing  people,  but  I  think  I  can  correct 
that  in  me.  But  my  temper,  no  not  temper, 
but  bad  humour,  impatience,  that  I  don't  think 
I  can  correct.  It  will  take  something  more  to 
correct  and  change  that.  I  often  resolve  to 
commence  and  be  better,  but  then  something 
will  come  that  I  don't  like  and  it  will  be  very 
hard  to  keep  my  —  what?  I  don't  know.  My 
good  humour  I  suppose.  Sometimes  I  quite 
forget  about  my  resolution  too.  Sometimes  I 
think  I  will  always  say  what  I  think,  it  is  a 
good  way  to  form  opinions,  but  I  would  only 
be  laughed  at  or  called  silly  or  affected  or 
something. 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

But  I  only  think  such  things  sometimes.  My 
nature  is  far  from  earnest  or  even  serious.  I 
generally  behave  very  sillily  and  childish.  I 
shall  try  to  reform  but  it  isn't  easy.  Noone 
will  believe  me.  But  I  will.  When  I  say  all 
this,  I  don't  mean  I  want  to  be  a  goody-goody, 
always  making  an  earnest  face.  For  I  love  to 
have  good  times  and  fun.  But  I  want  to  be 
better  and  nobler  and  not  mean  or  narrow 
minded.  To  tell  the  truth  I  don't  exactly  know 
myself  what  I  want  to  be.  As  some  philosopher 
says:  Know  thyself.  I  think  it  a  very  wise 
saying.  I  certainly  think  I  don't  know  myself. 
But  I  don't  think  my  thoughts  are  of  enough 
importance  to  write  so  much  about.  I'm  getting 
sick  of  it." 

oa. 

ANOTHER  six  months  has  passed  over  my 
head  and  has  made  it  six  months  wiser. 

What  a  peculiar  thing  it  is  to  become  wiser. 
How  thoughts,  that  is  true  thoughts,  fall  upon 
you  like  little  surprises,  and  enlighten  your 
dull  mind.  (Not  that  I  think  I  have  an  es- 
pecially dull  mind.)  But  human  mind  in 
general  I  think  has  been  made  of  very  tough 
material;  scarcely  any  are  capable  of  doing 


PHILOSOPHY 


the  noble  and  beautiful  and  few  can  appreciate 
it  as  it  should  be  appreciated,  from  the  fad:  of 
its  rareness  here  on  earth.  Take  nature,  how 
few  think  of  it  excepting  perhaps  in  a  passing 
moment,  how  few  consider  how  pure,  how 
beautiful,  how  grand,  how  elavating  (sic)  it  is; 
it  stimulates  man  to  his  best  thoughts,  highest 
ideals  and  I  think  that  probably  every  action 
and  idea  approaching  the  divine  can  trace  its 
origin  to  some  emotion  occasioned  by  nature. 
It  seems  at  times  incredible  to  me  that  man  was 
chosen  for  the  master  of  all  creation,  man  with 
his  vices  almost  always  outweighing  his  vir- 
tues, man  over  the  pure,  the  unconscious,  the 
innocent.  To  what  end,  what  purpose!  Surely 
not  just  for  the  sake  of  existence,  of  satisfying 
necessary  and  selfish  desires,  for  what  else  is 
it?  Surely  the  advancement  of  the  world  is 
not  to  make  it  more  comfortable  for  man! 

But  how  ridiculous  for  me  to  advance  any 
ideas  on  this  well-beaten  and  well-used  track  of 
human  mind  and  intelligence,  which  is  so  in- 
terminable, so  full  of  difficulties,  that  although 
the  beginning  be  trodden  over  and  over  again, 
beyond  noone  has  dared  to  put  a  foot  on  the 
rickety  ground.  As  I  am  writing  this,  in  my 
mind  I  see  a  picture:  It  is  a  great  river,  noone 

C220H 


AN    AUrOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

knows  its  source  nor  even  its  end;  it  flows 
between  heaven  and  earth,  between  the  visible 
and  the  invisible,  between  realism  and  idealism. 
It  separates  that  which  we  can  understand 
from  that  which  soars  high  above  our  mental 
vision,  it  separates  that  which  can  be  proved 
by  facts,  from  that  which  can  be  proved  only 
by  abstracts,  and  what  are  these  but  the 
source  of  facts  ?  On  its  one  shore  stand  crowds, 
most  not  seeming  to  be  conscious  of  the  river, 
others  once  in  a  great  while  casting  a  look  at  it, 
some  idly  gazing  over  it,  trying  to  imagine  the 
opposite  shore,  for  see  they  cannot  as  it  is 
always  hidden  by  the  clouds  and  misty  hazes, 
but  still  these  very  clouds  seem  to  have  a  subtle 
fascination  for  the  idlers  on  the  bank  who  are 
seemingly  waiting  for  the  clouds  to  break  open 
and  reveal  the  object  of  their  glances  and 
thoughts.  Still,  these  very  men  know  best  of 
all  that  for  centuries  and  centuries  these  clouds 
have  been  there  and  have  not  moved  one  atom, 
and  by  their  strength  only  will  be  forced  from 
their  place.  Perhaps  it  is  man's  destiny  to 
conquer  also  this  element  as  he  has  conquered 
all  the  others?  No  doubt  it  is,  and  time  will 
reveal  the  mystery. 
Then  there  are  a  very  few  who  are  not  con- 


PHILOSOPHT 


tent  to  stand  idly  dreaming,  a  few  who  try  to 
hasten  the  revelation.  They  throw  themselves 
into  the  river,  they  manage  to  keep  above  a 
little  if  skillful  and  brave  swimmers,  but  after 
a  little  even  the  most  courageous  give  up.  Over 
them  rush  the  waters  of  reason,  of  impossi- 
bilities and  logic,  sometimes  amid  the  mockeries 
and  laughter  of  those  too  cowardly  or  too 
cautious  to  attempt  the  same;  sometimes  amid 
the  cheers  of  a  people  realizing  that  one  of  them 
perished  in  a  noble  cause. 

I  should  like  to  continue  but  I  must  study. 

No,  I  have  10  minutes  more.  My  ideal  life 
would  be  to  write!  I  can  imagine  noone  happier 
than  a  young  author  whose  merits  are  ac- 
knowledged, who  has  attained  a  name  through 
his  own  brain!  I  am  going  to  attempt  it!  If 
I  am  deceived  in  myself,  I  suppose  I  will  settle 
down  and  go  husband  hunting  according  to 
the  generally  adopted  plan. 

But  I  don't  think  I  shall  try  for  some  time 
to  write  at  all  for  I  have  read  far  too  little  as 
yet.  Most  likely  I  shall  fail  like  so  many 
others  much  more  talented  but  still  I  shall  find 
satisfaction  in  knowing  that  I  attempted  to 
make  use  of  my  life.  But  it  must  be  under- 
stood that  if  I  find  I  have  no  talent  or  ability 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

I  certainly  shall  not  make  any  attempts  at 
authorship.  But  I  hope  and  trust  I  will  not 
be  disappointed  in  myself  for  that  I  think 
must  be  dreadful!  I  hate  to  think  of  it!  To 
imagine  you  have  a  talent  or  a  superior  brain 
or  something  and  to  find  out  you're  good  for 
nothing  especial,  perfectly  commonplace,  and 
had  better  retire  from  the  contest  with  blasted 
hopes!  Let  us  pray  that  it  won't  be  my  fate.  — 
Mother  bought  me  a  lovely  hat;  a  large 
black  mushroom  shape,  I  would  look  much 
nicer  in  it  if  I  could  still  wear  curls;  my  braid 
is  most  unsympathetic  to  me." 


EVEN  then,  as  you  perceive,  I  had  vague 
intimations  of  philosophy,  though  I  knew  her 
not,  and  I  realized  that  I  needed  some  equip- 
ment in  addition  to  the  talent  to  which  my 
desire  for  fame  as  I  thought,  testified,  although 
I  do  not  seem  to  have  considered  anything  more 
than  courage,  application  and  time  necessary 
for  clearing  up  the  mysteries  of  the  universe. 

I  worked  hard  at  school  in  order  to  make 
an  early  entrance  into  college,  and  I  entered 
with  tremendous  elation  whose  source  was  a 
short  and  crowded  year's  acquaintance  with 


PHILOSOPHY 


Caesar,  Cicero,  Horace  and  Homer,  one  from 
which,  as  you  may  imagine,  the  novelty  and 
charm  had  no  time  to  wear  off.  I  can  best 
describe  my  feelings  during  these  first  years 
(adhering  to  my  youthful  literary  tradition) 
by  comparing  myself  to  one  who,  looking  abroad 
on  a  dark  and  fog-enclosed  night,  and  finding 
in  himself  alone  a  centre  of  life  and  interest, 
suddenly  sees  the  fog  lift,  the  clouds  disperse 
and  the  starry  heavens  magnificently  arch 
above,  spatially  finite  only  because  of  his  own 
feeble  eyes  and  materially  finite  because  of  his 
feeble  brain.  As  Copernicus'  discoveries  in 
regard  to  the  heavenly  bodies  are  said  to  have 
removed  man  from  the  centre  of  the  universe 
to  its  periphery,  so  my  discoveries  of  the 
splendour  of  the  human  tradition  and  the  in- 
finite vastness  of  its  future  possibilities  removed 
myself  from  the  centre  of  my  interest  to  its 
periphery. 

When  in  my  third  year  I  fell  in  with  phi- 
losophy the  sun  of  my  heaven  thereby  arose; 
all  other  stars  and  systems  of  learning,  — 
history  and  literature  and  science,  —  were 
eclipsed,  and  my  universe  was  of  a  sudden 
lighted,  warmed  and  fecundated.  I  remember 
that  I  now  read  the  former  heroes  of  the  show, 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

Matthew  Arnold,  Carlyle,  Ruskin  and  so  forth 
with  constant  mental  commentaries:  "how  do 
you  know  this,"  and  "  define  your  terms." 
And  not  only  these  dead  geniuses  but  most  of 
the  ungenial  living  acquaintances  as  well,  since 
they  too  neither  defined  terms  nor  refrained 
from  continual  dogmatic  statements,  appeared 
to  me  intolerably  unphilosophic  and  hence  un- 
profitable. I  listened  with  boredom  to  these 
individuals  who,  basing  their  conclusions  on 
their  limited  private  stock  of  knowledge,  did 
not  trouble  to  connect  with  the  tradition  of 
the  race  (so  I  judged  them),  and  I  read  with 
indifference  the  poets  who,  basing  on  nothing 
more  than  their  impressionistically  limited 
feelings  regarding  their  worlds,  visioned  out 
of  the  "blue"  (so  I  judged  them).  Instead  I 
worshipped  humbly,  ardently  and  exclusively 
at  the  shrine  of  the  lover  of  wisdom,  —  of  him, 
who,  considering  all  fact  and  all  method  and 
all  thought,  laboriously  built  up  a  system 
embodying  in  terms  of  reason  a  vision  of  truth 
unbiassed  by  desire,  mood  or  utility.  I  think 
that  I  put  up  with  the  study  of  art  because  it 
constituted  the  material  with  which  aesthetics 
deals,  with  history  and  economics  because  of 
their  usefulness  to  ethics  and  with  poetry  and 

£225  3 


PHILOSOPHY 


fiction  for  the  sake  of  their  latent  psychology. 
Certainly  I  felt  toward  them  as  does  a  snob 
toward  poor  relations. 

The  social  world,  which  people  called  "life," 
all  that  went  on  about  me  —  domestic  and  na- 
tional affairs,  births,  marriages,  crimes,  panics, 
strikes  and  wars  —  were  but  shadows  of  some 
substance  which  philosophy  alone  had  power 
to  reveal  in  true  colours.  Indeed,  I  believe 
that  the  only  event  of  an  unphilosophic  nature 
that  impressed  me  as  fully  and  heavily  real 
was  death.  For  whereas  it  seemed  to  me  that 
life  in  all  its  phases  might  be  controlled  and 
corrected  subsequently,  not  so  death,  which, 
I  realized,  had  a  hard  irrevocability  and  finality 
into  which  philosophy  had  failed  to  insert  its 
meanings.  Death  stood  out  in  my  experi- 
ence as  a  disquieting  and  grim  hint  of  the 
existence  of  a  reality  independent  of  philo- 
sophic insight.  .  .  . 

As  I  now  look  back,  I  see  that  I  lived  through 
these  years  as  most  girls  do.  I  got  a  general 
education,  I  shared  the  home  life,  I  formed 
numerous  friendships  and  became  acquainted 
with  the  pastimes  of  sport,  dancing  and  flirting. 
Together  with  a  friend  I  edited  a  paper  at  a 
settlement-house  for  which  I  wrote  foolish 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

grown-up  editorials,  and  at  college  I  edited 
the  monthly  magazine  to  which  I  contributed 
literary  productions  demanded  by  the  college- 
curriculum! 

All  these  deeds  I  performed  with  an  ab- 
normally large  accompaniment  of  emotional 
excitement  (so  I  think  at  least).  Nothing,  I 
know,  ran  smoothly.  My  friendships  were 
broken  or  consolidated  with  tears  and  heart- 
ache; my  studies  pursued  in  the  varying  moods 
of  the  elation  of  success  and  the  annoyance 
of  rivalry  and  the  depression  of  defeat;  my 
editorships  were  bathed  in  the  disquieting 
atmosphere  of  ambition  to  shine  coupled  with 
the  timidities  of  inexperience  and  ignorance; 
all  my  so-called  social  distractions  were  not  so 
much  the  distractions  they  were  intended  for, 
as  additional  excitements. 

And  yet  somehow,  and  in  spite  of  all  this, 
these  phases  of  life  in  their  entirety  seemed  to 
me  not  to  "count."  .  .  .  Yes,  that  was  it:  as 
children,  when  playing,  often  multiply  un- 
satisfactory starts  indefinitely  without  counting 
them,  so  I  went  through  all  the  seething  emo- 
tions of  daily  life  with  the  ever  present  feeling 
that  they  should  not  count  and  did  not  count. 
An  odd,  but  a  vaguely  comforting  feeling:  for 


PHILOSOPHY 


it  was  thus  possible  with  a  contracted  heart 
and  with  tears  of  anger  or  indignation  in  one's 
eyes  still  to  think  "this  doesn't  count";  or 
with  a  sweet  flood  of  satisfied  vanity  coursing 
through  one's  being  and  the  light  of  success 
in  one's  eyes,  still  to  think  "this  doesn't  count 
either." 

I  suppose  that  had  I  fashioned  my  thoughts 
into  a  picture  I  should  have  seen  myself  being 
pushed  by  the  current  of  life  into  all  the  con- 
ventional whirlpools  and  eddies  of  situation 
and  emotion,  looking  confidently  to  philosophy 
to  help  me  to  strike  out  for  myself  in  the  near 
future  and  liberate  myself  once  for  all  time. 
And  my  eyes  in  the  midst  of  the  absorption  of 
doing  and  suffering  were  constantly  turned  to 
that  future. 

Then  I  came  here.  From  the  beginning 
something  was  changed.  The  things  and 
happenings  of  daily  life  which  before  had  en- 
joyed so  very  fleeting  an  existence  that  I  was 
able  to  completely  disconnect  from  them  that 
future  in  which  conscious  judgment  was  to 
reform  me,  now  began  to  hold  me  fast  and 
absorb  me  without  reservation,  so  that  the 
sense  of  "it  doesn't  count"  got  no  opportunity 
to  arise.  The  contemplation  of  beauty,  the 

£228  3 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

charm  of  a  fellow-being,  or  of  a  mood  or  a 
thought,  from  which  before  I  had  hurriedly 
freed  myself,  now  sucked  me  in,  and  I  often 
lost  all  sense  of  time  and  of  self  in  impersonal 
enjoyment.  .  .  .  But  if  I  no  longer  heard  the 
accompanying  voice  "it  doesn't  count,"  neither 
did  I  hear  any  explanatory  voice  telling  me 
why  it  did  count.  I  quite  simply  "enjoyed" 
my  conflicting  states  of  mind  and  mood,  and  I 
subsequently  wondered  at  them  without  com- 
prehension, so  that  there  still  existed  a  gap 
between  the  hourly  detailed  life  I  suffered  and 
the  future  life  of  the  reason  I  hoped  for.  But 
whereas  before  this  the  former  had  been  sub- 
ordinated to  the  latter,  the  two  were  now  equally 
real,  though  disconnected. 

After  I  knew  you,  Taddeo,  the  thing  that 
happened  was,  I  think,  this:  My  eyes  returned 
from  the  future  to  the  present,  and  this  present 
grew  immensely  in  both  directions  and  ended 
by  embracing  both  the  past  and  the  future. 
The  past  which  had  not  counted  was  reinstated 
by  the  importance  and  satisfactoriness  of  the 
present  and  the  future  fell  from  its  enthroned 
estate  by  a  sort  of  sudden  conversion  into  a 
dependent  of  the  present.  —  You  are  acquainted 
with  the  novelist's  convention  of  making  his 


PHILOSOPHY 


heroine  look  into  her  mirror  on  the  evening  of 
the  day  in  which  she  has  been  fallen  in  love 
with.  Immersed  in  the  contemplation  of  the 
charms  that  seduced  her  lover,  she  begins  to 
see  herself  through  his  beautifying  eyes,  and  in 
the  end  herself  falls  a  little  in  love  with  the 
object  of  his  love.  .  .  . 

After  you  were  my  wonderful  friend  I  fell 
into  this  introspective  attitude  habitually  and 
my  memory  was  my  mirror.  I  dragged  forth 
from  it  all  of  that  past  that  had  not  counted 
when  it  was  present,  and  reconsidered  both 
it  and  myself.  In  fact  I  began  to  resurrect 
myself  at  different  periods  of  life,  and  the  little 
and  big  girls  that  emerged  impressed  me  at 
first  as  complete  strangers,  so  long  a  time  had 
gone  by  since  I  had  even  thought  of  them. 
And  desiring,  perhaps,  to  make  up  for  neglect 
and  to  chase  the  reproaches  from  their  eyes  I 
let  them  play  with  the  little  and  big  boys 
that  you  contemporaneously  were,  and  when  I 
witnessed  the  devotion  they  inspired  in  those 
charming  boys  I  began  to  take  pleasure  and 
some  pride  in  being  related  to  them. 

And  that's  how  I  began  to  feel  myself  as  the 
resultant  of  my  past  selves  as  well  as  the 
tendency  toward  my  future  self.  .  .  . 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

This  is  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you;  how 
philosophy  came  to  me  as  a  deliverer  from  the 
trammels  and  the  limitations  of  self  and  as 
the  teacher  of  life;  how  she  held  complete 
sway  over  all  I  owned  until  quite  lately,  and 
how,  although  she  is  still  my  great  friend,  full 
of  promises  and  of  inspiration,  her  domain  is 
reduced.  I  now  recognize  that  the  present  is 
real,  and  immensely  real,  and  that  you  are  its 
torch.  And  that  it  should  so  vitally  and  tre- 
mendously count  and  that  your  affection 
should  make  this  appraisement  is  my  great  and 
undeserved  good  fortune. 

HENRIE 


C23I3 


PHILOSOPHY 


D 


EAR  TADDEO, 

My  dissertation  is  practically  finished  and 
now  goes  into  Herr  Schulze's  corrective  hands 
voluntarily  outstretched  at  a  time  when  he 
too  is  cramming  for  exams,  so  that  it  is  truly 
kind  of  him  to  make  this  offer  and  unkind  of 
me  to  accept  it. 

From  hearing  the  production  of  books  com- 
pared to  the  creation  of  children  I  had  come  to 
think  of  this  book  as  the  child  of  my  brain; 
now  that  it  is  born  I  realize  how  inapt  is  the 
comparison.  For  its  birth  instead  of  enrich- 
ing me,  leaves  me  mourning  its  loss.  Departed 
and  gone  by  into  the  world,  the  thing  that  lived 
and  grew  within  me,  severed  from  me,  is  now 
extinct  for  me.  As  for  the  mind  that  produced 
it,  an  opaque  mist  seems  to  have  descended  • 
upon  it  and  like  an  exhausted  field  just  despoiled 
of  its  fruit  it  stands  in  need  of  a  clover  season 
to  regain  fertility.  I  am  wondering  what  my 
clover  will  be;  what  it  is  that  is  going  to 
stimulate  my  will  to  do  and  re-vitalize  my 
fatigued  and  exploited  personality.  For  I'm 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

tired  and  discouraged.  I  may  have  succeeded 
in  doing  a  respectable  piece  of  work,  —  in  its 
poor  way  it  is  almost  perfect,  I  believe,  —  but 
withdrawing  from  it  the  pride  of  a  parent  and 
looking  at  it  from  the  outside  of  the  family 
circle,  so  to  say,  I  find  it  to  be  nothing  more 
than  an  exposition  and  analysis  of  the  thoughts 
of  other  minds  and  their  criticism  according  to 
standards  likewise  established  by  other  minds. 
I  have  been  brought  no  nearer  to  truth;  I 
have  but  detected  plentiful  new  error.  And 
this  is  not  what  I  need,  want  and  must  have. 

Yes,  my  poor  first-born,  so  well  put  up,  so 
anatomically  faultless,  you're  of  the  wrong 
sex,  as  it  were,  and  hence  useless  to  me!  — 
Herewith  I  see  that  I  myself  have  fallen  into 
the  time-honoured  analogy.  Yet  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  the  only  resemblance  between  real  and 
mental  childbearing  lies,  it  seems  to  me,  in 
both  being  painful  performances  of  expression; 
and  I  admit  that  I've  taken  a  dislike  both  to 
the  term  and  to  the  process.  Turning  one's 
faculties  upon  oneself,  and  pressing  one's 
thoughts  and  intuitions  and  feelings  into  forms, 
—  and  at  that  into  what  forms!  —  into  sym- 
bols, already  freighted  with  meaning  not  one's 
own,  —  this  procedure  has  finally  disgusted  me; 

£233:1 


PHILOSOPHT 


it  is  too  deliberate,  too  small,  too  self-conscious. 
I  have  now  determined  to  wait  until  artistic 
creation  becomes  for  me  a  process  more  akin 
to  spontaneous  combustion!  Yes,  when  my 
vision  explodes  instead  of  having  to  be  forcibly 
expressed,  I  may  care  to  share  myself  with  a 
public! 

Indeed,  you  are  right  if  you  are  thinking  me 
down  and  out,  my  Taddeo;  I  don't  know  down 
where  or  out  where  I  am,  but  it  doesn't  make 
one  less  unhappy  not  to  know  the  cause  of  her 
misery.  On  the  contrary.  .  .  .  Perhaps  be- 
cause I  don't  yet  feel  the  benefit  I  must  have 
derived  from  the  composition  of  this  essay,  as 
one  doesn't  feel  the  benefit  of  systematic 
exercise  until  long  after.  —  Or  perhaps  because 
the  world  is  so  replete  with  other  things  be- 
sides, and  I  have  but  two  eyes  and  one  mind  for 
them.  Or  more  specifically  because  the  world 
is  so  full  of  just  these  conventional  symbols  — 
of  words,  —  and  it  is  so  interesting  and  so 
exciting  to  feel  that  which  they  already  mean, 
that  it  would  seem  as  if  one  never  could  arrive 
at  expressing  oneself  in  and  by  means  of  them. 
Yes,  I  think  it's  this:  given  that  it  is  most 
engrossing,  enriching  and  entertaining  to  feel 
what  other  minds  have  put  before  me  and  for 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

me  in  books,  in  music,  in  art,  in  the  immense 
cultural  tradition,  and  given  that  even  each 
one  of  that  unlimited  number  of  words  and 
phrases  being  constantly  pronounced  by  the 
most  ordinary  persons  has  the  strange  but 
compelling  power  of  bringing  something  new 
to  life  in  me,  —  how  shall  I  ever,  ever  get 
through  them  to  self-expression  ? 

Not  knowing  this,  I  spent  most  of  today 
lying  with  my  eyes  closed  to  keep  the  outside 
world  from  contact  with  me.  The  only  things 
that  I  could  endure  to  sense  were  my  very  own, 
the  beat  of  my  heart  and  the  heat  of  my  eyes, 
and  my  breath  across  my  skin,  because,  some- 
how, I  derived  comfort  from  the  feeling  that 
these  actions  led  nowhere,  but  terminating 
within  myself,  seemed  to  billow  my  sick  spirit 
maternally. 

Your  poor 

HENRIE 


C  235  3 


PHILOSOPHY 


D 


EAREST  TADDEO, 

I  haven't  written,  because  I've  been  so 
awfully,  awfully  busy.  Added  to  my  other 
and  increasing  work  I  have  Roschen  on  my 
hands.  She  is  a  young  lady  distinguished 
among  her  kind  for  her  legible  handwriting 
and  hence  demanded  by  Rickert,  who  holds 
mine  in  contempt  because  so  "furchtbar  Ameri- 
kanisch,"  and  also  the  typewriter's  for  reasons 
unstated,  but  probably  likewise  because  "  Ameri- 
kanisch."  Roschen's  results  are  indeed  phe- 
nomenal, but  her  methods  are  unaesthetic. 
She  sits  doubled  up  and  perspiring  over  the 
paper,  with  strands  of  her  straight  hair  trail- 
ing across  it,  and  a  handkerchief  in  her  hot 
left  hand  together  with  a  rubber  and  a  knife 
which  she  has  occasion  to  apply  whenever  she 
copies  a  long  word  without  first  consulting 
me.  My  learning  in  her  handwriting  strikes 
me  as  a  monstrosity;  yet  Rickert  likes  it! 

And  besides,  I  have  tried  to  do  my  spring 
shopping. 

The  shops  here,  I  have  discovered,  belong 

£236:1 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

to  three  distinct  social  classes.  The  proletariat 
class  is,  of  course,  the  simplest  and  the  closest 
to  nature,  and  has  therefore  adopted  but  few 
artificial  forms.  In  them  one  is  greeted  with 
a  plain  "Guten  Tag,  was  winsche  Sie  bitte?" 
and  one's  request  is  answered  by  "Jawohl," 
or  "Nein,  dees  habe  mer  nit."  Both  replies 
to  the  point  and  satisfactory.  In  these  estab- 
lishments, of  which  florists  and  bakeries  are  the 
most  frequent  examples,  one  closes  the  door 
herself  upon  her  exit,  no  matter  what  may 
have  transpired  within.  In  short,  shopping  in 
the  proletariat  class  is  business-like  and  im- 
personal. Unfortunately,  however,  proletariat 
shops  contain  nothing  one  wants,  besides  being 
rare  in  this  neighbourhood,  and  so  one  has  to 
turn  to  the  prosperous  "bourgeoisie"  which 
constitutes  an  overwhelming  majority  on  the 
Kaiserstrasse. 

The  "bourgeosie"  proceeds  in  its  dealings 
with  the  public  on  the  general  principle  that 
it  can  furnish  everything  necessary  to  a  human 
being's  welfare,  and  that  demands  which  it 
cannot  supply  are  either  eccentric  or  idiotic, 
and  in  any  case  improper.  Accordingly  one 
is  invariably  answered  by  a  "Gewiss  meine 
Dame"  on  stating  one's  request.  The  confi- 

£237  3 


PHILOSOPHY 


dence  which  produces  this  immediate  and 
instinctive  reply  as  invariably  sends  the  sales- 
lady off  on  a  hunt  for  the  article  demanded,  and 
only  after  meeting  with  defeat  at  the  hands  of 
experience  does  her  theory  of  the  universality 
of  her  property  in  the  satisfaction  of  human 
wants  break  down.  Far  from  conceiving  this 
state  of  affairs  to  be  proof  of  her  own  imper- 
fection, however,  the  sales-lady,  or  the  owner 
of  the  shop  to  whom  an  appeal  is  habitual 
under  these  circumstances,  naturally  and  in 
accordance  with  "bourgeois"  ethics,  interprets 
the  lack  of  harmony  between  supply  and 
demand  as  a  defect  of  the  latter.  A  few  types 
of  criticism  on  the  nature  of  this  defect  may  be 
found  in  the  following  types  of  answer.  The 
one  to  a  request  for  brown  silk  stockings: 
"Also,  das  gibt  es  nicht;  in  schwarz  und  weiss 
schon,  aber  in  farbig  werden  seidene  Striimpfe 
nicht  angefertigt.  Aber  konnte  die  Dame 
nicht  weiss  brauchen?  Ach  so,  mit  braunen 
Schuhen  zu  tragen!  Aber  eigentlich  sieht 
weiss  doch  viel  eleganter  aus.  Wie?  Gewiss 
meine  Dame,  in  *fil  d'Ecosse'  fiihren  wir  sie 
schon.  Welche  Nummer,  wenn  ich  bitten 
darf?  Acht  ein  halb?  Ach  nein,  das  gibt's 
iiberhaupt  nicht!  Wie  ich  ihren  Fuss  ansehe, 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

ware  das  iiberhaupt  viel  zu  klein  fur  die  Dame. 
Mit  neun  ein  halb  kann  ich  schon  dienen,  und 
ware  gerade  richtig  fur  die  Dame.  Wie,  acht 
und  halb  ist  ihre  Nummer?  Ausgeschlossen, 
dass  die  Dame  das  tragen  konnte.  Ich  glaube 
fast,  die  Dame  beabsichtigt,  iiberhaupt  nicht 
zu  kaufen." 

Or,  upon  trying  to  find  a  broad-brimmed 
shade  hat,  and  seeing  but  one  which  approxi- 
mately answered  the  purpose  but  was  so  bat- 
tered in  that  the  straw  was  broken:  "Also 
das  ware  genau  was  die  Dame  verlangt.  Besser 
konnte  man  es  nirgends  finden.  Kaput?  Ach 
nein,  die  Dame,  das  ware  doch  nicht  kaput, 
das  konnte  nur  etwas  durch  das  Liegen  gebogen 
sein.  Ein  Loch  ?  Ach  aber  so  klein,  die  Dame. 
Schliesslich  sind  doch  alle  grosse  Hiite  kaput. 
Das  geht  eben  nicht  anders." 

From  these  replies,  containing  negatives, 
even  if  disguised  ones,  the  necessary  conclusion 
that  follows  is  the  obligation  to  close  the  door 
after  oneself,  whereas  the  purchase  of  even 
five  cents'  worth  of  "bourgeois"  goods  insures 
to  the  purchaser  a  dignified  exit  through  doors 
held  wide  open,  an  approving  "good-bye," 
and  a  warm  invitation  to  honour  the  shop  soon 
again.  The  temptation  to  leave  the  door  open 


PHILOSOPHY 


in  the  first  contingency  is  very  great,  being, 
as  it  were,  the  natural  equivalent  for  a  last 
word  in  a  wordy  encounter,  but  great  discre- 
tion has  to  be  exercised  in  deciding  when  to 
succumb  to  this  temptation,  as,  paradoxically, 
by  leaving  the  door  open,  one  so  to  say  shuts 
the  door  upon  oneself  and  the  other  side  of  it 
for  ever. 

Alas,  if  one  flees  from  the  bustling  compla- 
cency of  the  "bourgeoisie"  to  the  more  reserved 
emporiums,  the  aristocracy  among  shops,  hop- 
ing for  more  liberal  treatment.  The  bustle, 
to  be  sure,  is  absent,  and  for  the  smiling  taking- 
possession  of  the  purchaser  there  is  substituted 
a  cringing  but  more  formal  "Womit  darf  ich 
dienen,  meine  Gnadige?"  If  in  this  case  an 
unknown,  or  at  any  rate  unowned  article  was 
asked  for,  the  answer  in  this  type  of  shop 
indicates  a  totally  different  attitude  of  mind. 
The  owner  or  attache  of  the  ancient  and  aristo- 
cratic emporium  replies:  "Nein,  das  fiihren 
wir  allerdings  nicht,  das  wird  von  unserer 
feinen  Kundschaft  nicht  verlangt."  Or,  "Wir 
fiihren  nur  das  Feinste  und  Modernste  aus 
Karlsruhe"  (pronounced  like  Paris),  or  "Also 
solche  Ware  bekommen  Sie  vielleicht  in  den 
billigen  Geschaften."  And  so  on:  obviously, 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

the  aristocracy  doesn't  deny  that  other  ideas 
than  its  own  exist,  but  it  finds  them  uninter- 
esting and  relegates  them  to  a  lower  sphere. 
That  which  it  owns,  it  considers  not  the  whole, 
but  certainly  the  best.  —  So  I  am  being  very 
economical.  — 

Have  I  told  you  that  Herr  Weiss  is  coaching 
me  in  some  branches  of  economics  not  given 
at  the  University  this  term.  He  comes  twice 
a  week  for  several  hours,  and  we  have  coffee  and 
conversation  in  between  working  sessions.  To- 
day we  spoke  of  "knowing"  life.  He,  as  most 
men,  I  suppose,  claimed  that  to  know  life  was 
to  see  men  at  their  average  and  their  worst; 
the  unformulated  but  basic  idea  being  that  in 
the  expression  of  their  physical  appetites  human 
beings  are  most  alive.  I  contended  that,  on 
the  contrary,  the  completest  insight  into  human 
affairs  was  to  be  gotten  not  from  random  in- 
dividuals but  from  those  most  comprehensive 
personalities  who  had  led  the  race  in  its  evo- 
lution. I  claimed  that  no  one  informed  by 
them  could  traverse  life  without  understanding 
it  and  intensely  living  it,  whereas  anyone 
might  easily  be  among  those  who  know  the  life 
of  the  primal  appetites  in  all  its  phases  and  yet 
go  through  its  performance  dully  and  me- 

3 


PHILOSOPHY 


chanically  and  without  any  vitalizing  sense  of 
personal  significance. 

And  he  argued  that  it  is  the  universal  things 
that  are  the  important  and  real,  and  I  argued 
that  it  is  the  things  that  form  the  womb  of  the 
future  that  are  the  vital  ones,  and  he  claimed 
that  it  was  necessary  to  see  how  masses  of  men 
acted  under  the  general  and  ineluctable  con- 
ditions of  their  lives,  and  I  insisted  that  it  was 
necessary  to  educate  one's  eyes  through  the 
knowledge  and  the  vision  of  the  seers  before 
all  else.  I  maintained  that  one  could  not  see 
by  simply  standing  in  the  crowd,  nor  feel  by 
rubbing  up  against  it,  nor  live  by  acting  with 
it,  if  one  was  blind,  and  insensitive  and  uncon- 
scious, and  that  in  the  end  it  was  a  matter  of 
being  alive  oneself  and  responding  to  the  vital 
forces  that  played  around  one;  —  that,  in 
short,  knowing  life  was  an  inner  and  not  an 
outer  experience.  He  didn't  agree  with  me, 
but  you  do,  do  you  not,  Taddeo  ? 

And  what  I  did  not  enlarge  upon  to  Weiss  is 
that  I  have  so  different  a  personal  feeling  in 
regard  to  all  this :  —  everything  in  me  cries 
for  life  and  more  life,  and  yet  I  cannot  believe 
that  to  plunge  headlong  into  experiences  that 
seem  like  the  most  dramatic  moments  of  life  — 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

the  final  fulfilments  of  delicate  promises  and 
of  swelling  developments  —  brings  one  to  life 
at  its  richest.  I  believe  that  one  must  be 
prepared  for  living  as  for  all  else;  that  one 
must  be  trained  to  absorb  it  with  all  one's 
faculties  and  that  only  so  complete  a  relation- 
ship to  life  does  justice  to  all  its  dimensions. 

I  suppose  my  theory  of  life  is  idealistic  in  the 
same  sense  in  which  my  theory  of  reality  is: 
I  hold  life  to  be  largely  my  own  creation.  And 
this  no  doubt  is  why  the  so-called  universal  or 
elemental  things  impress  me  so  little  in  and  of 
themselves  and  interest  me  only  in  relation  to 
the  individual  and  particular  cases  that  mani- 
fest them.  And  also  why  I  believe  that  it  is 
I  who  must  give  weight  and  beauty  and  large- 
ness to  these  universal  experiences  if  they  are 
to  have  such  a  character,  —  when  I  grant  them 
admission.  And  this  is  why  Weiss  studies 
physics  and  economics  and  why  I  study  phi- 
losophy and  ethics  and  myself.  .  .  . 

I'm  cramming  history  as  well,  so  you  must 
put  up  with  these  hurried  letters:  regard  them 
as  swift  glances  that  promise  more  from  their 
owner  than  she  may  ever  have  the  power  to 
give.  — 

"A  propos"  of  history  listen  to  the  following 


PHILOSOPHY 


for  a  real  occurrence.  I  have  been  working  in 
the  historical  Seminar  for  some  time,  reading 
the  necessary  Latin  sources  contained  in  its 
library  (what  a  fate  for  a  modern  person  in 
a  hurry!).  This  Seminar-room's  atmosphere  is 
even  worse  than  that  of  our  philosophical  one, 
quite  mediaeval  in  fact,  and  it  has  a  desolate 
look  and  only  a  few  depressed  students  rumi- 
nate therein.  Last  Wednesday,  while  I  was 
absorbed  in  work,  a  small,  stout,  pompous, 
brown-bearded,  bespectacled  professor  entered, 
stood  as  if  petrified  upon  seeing  me,  turned 
red  with  anger  and  burst  out: 

"Also,  wenn  ich  bitten  darf,  was  machen  Sie 
hier,  mein  Fraulein?" 

I  explained  to  him  that  I  was  "making" 
knowledge  for  the  purpose  of  a  nearby  Doctor 
examination. 

"Who  gave  you  permission?" 

"Professor  Linke  with  whom  I  am  working." 

"I  am  Professor  Taube,  head  of  the  depart- 
ment, and  what  you  say  is  incomprehensible 
to  me  (his  tone  said:  you  cannot  be  speaking 
the  truth),  for  Professor  Linke  knows  that  it 
is  I  alone  who  have  the  say  here;  und  Sie 
miissen  schliesslich  selbst  einsehen,  dass  ich  es 
den  katholischen  Studenten  unmoglich  zu- 

£2443 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

muten  kann,  mit  Ihnen  hier  im  Zimmer 
beisammen  zu  sitzen." 

He  swept  his  hand  around  toward  the  f rocked 
student  body,  represented  by  two  gentlemen. 
One  St.  Anthony  was  just  then  timidly  blowing 
his  nose  and  the  other  was  rubbing  a  spot  out 
of  his  robe,  and  in  between  both  were  peering 
over  their  glasses  with  round  eyes  and  twisted 
necks  at  their  irate  and  excited  protector. 

"Therefore,"  continued  he,  "I  must  ask 
you,  mein  Fraulein,  to  remove  yourself." 

"Gewiss,  Herr  Professor,"  I  replied,  "but 
it  will  make  things  more  difficult  for  me,  for 
I  need  this  library." 

"Das,"  exploded  he,  "thut  mir  sehr  Leid," 
(his  tone  said,  and  I  quite  understood,  "das 
ist  Nebensache"). 

So  I  removed  myself,  torn  between  indigna- 
tion and  a  desire  to  laugh  loud.  Nor  could 
Professor  Linke  do  anything  more  for  me  than 
apologize  and  sympathize  and  lend  me  a  few 
of  the  most  necessary  books  from  his  own 
library.  But  I  fancy  that  when  he  examines 
me  he  will  remember  the  handicap  the  human 
frailty  of  the  man  with  the  cold,  and  of  the 
other  with  the  dusty  coat,  imposed  on  me. 

So  you  see  there  are  rifts  in  the  stifling  clouds 


PHILOSOPHY 


of  philosophy  in  which  I  am  leading  a  shut-in, 
sultry  and  dramatic  existence. 

I  have  just  been  visiting  the  night  on  my 
balcony.  The  lilacs  are  beginning  to  blossom 
and  the  cherry  tree  in  the  neighbouring  garden 
is  pink  and  white  in  the  moonlight  and  my 
throat  is  tense  and  my  eyes  wet  from  a  balked 
longing  to  go  out  to  the  moonlit  meadows  and 
walk  there  alone  with  my  memories  and  hopes 
and  perplexities.  .  .  . 

And  I  foresee  that  there  will  be  many,  many 
more  handicaps  and  limitations  and  hedges 
and  fences  and  chains  to  be  suffered  when  I  am 
completely  grown  up  and  completely  a  woman, 
horribly  unfair  and  almost  mutilating  ones. 
And  I  already  know  that  if  it  were  not  for 
you  I  should  detest  being  a  woman. 

Your  HENRIE 


AN    AUrOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 


D 


EAR  THADDEUS, 

No,  I  am  not  flirting  with  Herr  Schulze; 
for  many  reasons,  one  of  which  suffices:  I  feel 
no  inclination  to.  Principle  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it,  and  the  fact  that  you  may  think  it  has 
(though  I  don't  believe  you  do)  is  so  amazing 
to  me  that  I  feel  compelled  to  try  to  formulate 
my  views  on  flirting  for  your  benefit,  although 
I  feel  no  inclination  to  do  this  either.  Not  that 
I  know  all  about  it,  for  no  doubt  there  are  many 
kinds  of  flirtation  and  I  have  thought  about  my 
own  kind  only.  If  for  instance  it's  true,  as  it 
is  said  to  be,  that  some  flirt  to  arouse  sex-feeling 
and  passion  I  haven't  observed  it.  However 
that  may  be,  I  flirt  to  arouse  feeling,  irre- 
spective of  its  nature,  and  in  order  to  see  some- 
thing in  the  outside  world  happen  through  my 
instrumentality  and  thus  to  quicken  my  sense 
of  power  and  of  life.  The  same  taste  and  in- 
stinct would  lead  me  to  choose  scrubbing  among 
all  forms  of  manual  labor,  because  there  too 
things  happen  before  your  eyes  through  your 
agency.  I  love  to  see  the  soapsuds  fly  and  new 

£247:1 


PHILOSOPHY 


colours  and  shapes  emerge  from  under  the  dis- 
appearing dirt.  I  love  to  see  conventional 
attitudes  fly  and  real  feelings  and  real  relations 
between  myself  and  "him"  arise  and  grow 
and  change  and  die,  as  I  will  them  to.  The 
fa 61  that  often  some  shade  of  sex-feeling  rang- 
ing from  sky-blue  sentimentality  to  purple 
passion  results,  is  accidental  as  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned and  finds  its  simple  explanation  in  that 
man  is  most  easily  moved  through  these  feelings, 
and  that  sex  is  woman's  instrument  because  she 
is  its  master  and  man  its  slave.  (More  or  less.) 
Curl  up  your  lips  at  my  precocious  wisdom;  it 
sounds  impressively  foreign  to  my  ears  too! 

So,  although  flirting  is  play  and  is  most 
exciting  when  two  play  at  it,  because  it  then 
contains  the  element  of  wariness,  of  competi- 
tion and  of  victory,  it  is  a  seductive  game  even 
if  one's  partner  be  unconscious  of  what  is  being 
done  with  him,  for  it  nevertheless  engenders  a 
lively  sense  of  power.  And  not  only  that:  as 
a  violin  singing  through  one's  instrumentality 
in  turn  plays  upon  one's  own  state  of  feeling,  so 
the  responses  of  the  other  called  forth  by  one- 
self, affect  oneself:  one  plays  with  the  other, 
and  one  plays  with  oneself,  and  the  game  be- 
comes a  dangerous  game.  — 

1:2483 


AN    AUrOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

I  suppose  there  are  some  women  who  prosti- 
tute flirtation  to  a  means  toward  marriage, 
and  if  so,  I  believe  they  are  to  be  pitied  rather 
than  condemned,  because  social  prejudices  pre- 
clude women  from  simple  and  frank  love- 
making.  And  there  may  be  others  who  flirt 
to  arouse  passion  because  they  feel  well  in  an 
atmosphere  of  passion,  and  still  others  who 
flirt  because  they  take  it  to  be  the  correct 
thing  to  do;  —  but  leaving  aside  all  these 
impure  uses  of  flirtation  and  considering  her 
only  who  flirts  for  the  love  of  flirting,  such  a 
one  could  never,  I  think,  flirt  with  a  man  who  is 
unsympathetic  to  her,  for  flirtation  is  an  inti- 
mate game;  nor  could  she,  I  am  sure,  unless 
so  young  or  so  shortsighted  as  to  confuse  play 
and  reality,  flirt  with  a  man  she  loves.  For 
I  can't  believe  that  love  has  anything  to  do 
with  feelings  of  power  or  supremacy,  or  with 
struggles  and  victories  and  pretences,  or  with 
the  sentimental  enjoyment  of  changing  emo- 
tion. I  believe  —  and  I  believe  with  certainty  — 
that  love  is  the  simple  desire  for  complete 
union  of  two  separated  souls  and  bodies  and 
the  steps  by  which  such  a  union  is  achieved 
must  necessarily  be  a  profound  and  thrilling 
mystery,  because  their  character  and  their 

£2493 


PHILOSOPHY 


significance  and  their  charm  derive  solely  from 
their  ultimate  goal,  and  nothing  else  in  con- 
nection with  them  counts. 

To  return  to  Herr  Schulze,  whose  first  name, 
Teddy,  he  owes  to  his  Mother's  interest  in  a 
"Duchess"  novel  hero  at  the  time  of  his  birth: 

—  I  suppose  I  am  not  flirting  with  him  because 
I'm   not    in   the    mood    for    playing    and    Fm 
not  in  the  mood  for  playing  because  I'm  too 
busily  occupied  with   other  things  —  perhaps. 

—  Fancy  me  on  one  of  our  walks  confiding  to 
Herr  Schulze,  while  gazing  into  his  mild  and 
unblinking    blue    eyes:    "When    I    shall    have 
returned    to  New  York,  Herr  Schulze,  I  shall 
think  of  you  often,  both  the  you  that  typifies 
that  which  I  like  in  your  race  —  of  your  sim- 
plicity,   your    mild    and    introspective    senti- 
mentality and  your  love  of  speculation,  —  and 
also,    Herr    Schulze,    of  your    individual    self, 
your   eighteenth   century   flavour,   your  bland 
smile,   the  way  you  wrinkle  your  face  when 
you  say  something  you  are  particularly  charmed 
by,  your  green  beaded  house  slippers  with  a 
pink  rose  on  the  toe,  presumably  confectioned 
by    your    sister,    though    undoubtedly,    werter 
Herr  Schulze,  any  normal  Freiburg  young  lady 
would  have  been  proud  to  have  been  granted 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

that  privilege;  —  and  —  (where  am  I?)  —  I 
shall  think  furthermore  of  the  way  you  look  at 
me,  half  patronizingly  and  half  admiringly 
'und  mit  vieler  freundlicher  Gesinnung  in  den 
lichten  blauen  Augen,'  and  I  fear  that  I  shall 
have  'Heimweh'  after  Freiburg,  lieber  Herr 
Schulze  (with  a  sentimental  smile  after  the 
word  Freiburg),  und  so  weiter." 

Fancy  me  taking  the  trouble  to  say  some- 
thing of  this  sort  simply  to  see  what  would 
result  while  I  am  worriedly  thinking,  "I  won- 
der whether  he  remembers  the  details  of 
the  'Atheismus-Streit,'  I  have  forgotten  them 
again"  and  "good  Heavens,  Herr  Schulze, 
what  was  the  name  of  Kant's  opponent  in  the 
public  defence  of  his  thesis  you  mentioned  ten 
minutes  ago,  that's  gone  too,"  etc.  etc. 

Anyway,  I  don't. 

But  I  must  tell  you  how  I  became  acquainted 
with  the  beaded  slippers.  Schulze  and  I  spent 
a  number  of  mornings  together,  cramming,  in 
an  arbour  of  the  Schulze  garden,  which  as  you 
may  not  know  is  a  scientific,  a  "landwirth- 
schaftlicher"  garden  attached  to  the  agricul- 
tural school  his  father  directs.  The  school 
occupies  several  floors  of  a  large  house  and  the 
family  occupies  the  rest.  As  for  the  garden 


PHILOSOPHY 


I  don't  know  what  grows  in  it,  I  have  never 
had  time  to  walk  in  it,  but  from  the  arbour  the 
growing  things  all  look  like  backward  vege- 
tables and  infant  trees  and  are  laid  out  with 
great  regularity,  so  that  the  garden  suggests 
a  hospital  for  weak  green  things  and  makes  a 
delicate,  meagre,  Botticellesque  impression. 

One  morning  it  was  raining  so  hard  when  I 
arrived  that  the  arbour  was  out  of  commission 
and  I  "drang"  into  the  house.  I  see  now  that 
I  "drang,"  for  Schulze  evidently  did  not  expect 
me,  trusting  to  some  quality  I  did  not  possess 
to  so  inform  me,  but  at  the  time  it  seemed  to 
me  quite  the  natural  and  normal  thing  to  do, 
and  I  accordingly  rang  the  bell  and  asked  for 
him.  It  was  then  I  made  the  acquaintance  of 
his  working  clothes  and  the  bright  green  slippers 
embroidered  in  beads  with  the  bright  pink  full 
blown  rose  resting  on  the  toes,  and  silver  leaves, 
—  did  I  say  that  before?  —  because  there  were 
silver  leaves,  and  a  little  blue  beetle  nestling 
in  the  rose,  —  and  on  each  foot  too.  We 
immediately  set  to  work  in  a  friendly  little 
family  sitting  room  decorated  with  Japanese 
fans  and  shells  and  cowbells  and  other  souvenirs 
of  Swiss  resorts,  and  although  Herr  Schulze  was 
not  in  his  most  buoyant  mood  all  went  well  for 


AN    AUrOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

a  few  minutes.  Then  suddenly  a  sewing  ma- 
chine began  to  whirr  quite  deafeningly,  and  I 
looked  up  to  discover  the  source  of  the  dis- 
turbance and  found  that  the  door  was  open 
into  the  next  room,  the  home  of  the  sewing 
machine.  I  looked  at  Herr  Schulze  and  then 
at  the  door  and  back  again  at  Herr  Schulze 
without  effect:  he  pretended  to  neither  hear 
nor  see.  We  went  on  for  a  few  minutes,  but 
couldn't  hear  one  another,  for  so  did  the  sewing 
machine.  I  again  looked  silently  but  express- 
ively at  Herr  Schulze,  the  door  and  Herr 
Schulze.  And  if  I  hadn't  gotten  up  and  closed 
it  with  an  "  Erlauben  Sie,  es  stort  mich  zu  sehr," 
—  to  which  he  responded  with  a  red  face  and  a 
helpless  "Bitte,  bitte,"  —  the  door  would  still 
be  open,  and  the  sewing  machine  and  the 
domestic  Chesterfield  who  was  operating  it 
would  still  be  tyrannizing  over  the  manifes- 
tations of  Herr  Schulze's  mild  and  inoffensive 
temperament. 

These  spring  days  are  so  lovely,  so  balmy 
and  hazy  and  vague,  and  there  is  so  much  air 
in  them,  and  it  is  so  still,  they  somehow  seem 
like  globes  of  glass  that  you  cannot  get  yourself 
and  your  affairs  inserted  into,  and  you  stand 
outside  their  transparent  sphere  and  admire 


PHILOSOPHY 


something  you  can't  get  at.    And  in  the  mean- 
while the  loveliness  of  the  days  goes  to  waste. 
How  is  your  spring  in  Paris,  mon  pauvre  ami? 
Votre  pauvre  amie  H. 

I  must  say  it  just  once:  Taddeo,  Taddeo,  how 
I  miss  you. 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 


M 


Y  DEAR  TADDEO, 

I  attended  Seminar  for  the  last  time  yester- 
day. At  its  close  I  inquired  of  Professor  Rickert, 
standing  aside  with  him,  whether  there  were 
any  special  regulations  in  regard  to  dress  at 
the  examination.  (I  had  been  warned  by 
someone  that  there  were.) 

"Yes  indeed,"  he  cried  out  in  his  ledlure 
tones,  so  that  everyone  wheeled  about  and 
stood  at  attention,  "I  must  beg  of  you  to  dress 
in  black,  entirely  in  black.  I  insist  upon  this 
because  two  years  ago  Fraulein  Braun  appeared 
in  a  skirt  which  'allerdings'  was  dark  blue  or 
perhaps  even  black,  with  which,  however,  she 
wore  a  pink  waist,  and  it  really  looked  very 
bad,  very  bad.  So  that  I  then  determined  not 
to  permit  anything  but  black  in  the  future.  I 
shall  expedl  you  therefore,  Fraulein  Waste,  to 
appear  in  a  completely  black  dress." 

After  the  door  closed,  a  hubbub  arose. 
Someone  suggested  a  modified  dress-suit,  some- 
one else  a  black  jet  evening  gown,  others 
offered  to  shop  for  something  suitable,  and  we 


PHILOSOPHY 


were  all  vastly  amused.  Nevertheless  it  is  a 
great  nuisance  to  have  to  bother  to  get  a  dress 
at  this  moment,  especially  here,  where  the 
dressmakers  are  so  helpless,  and  all  because 
Fraulein  Braun  didn't  wear  a  pink  skirt  or  a 
dark  blue  waist  two  years  ago.  I  did  immedi- 
ately telegraph  to  Rome  to  Florine  to  ask 
whether  she  could  lend  me  a  dress  of  hers  for 
the  occasion,  and  have  just  received  this  reply: 
"Have  already  expressed  lovely  black  chiffon 
with  gold  dots,  wine  coloured  and  purple 
underdress,  Poiret.  Florine." 

So  here  I  am,  having  my  besetting  sin  offi- 
cially mixed  up  with  my  certificate  of  virtue, 
and  chasing  from  the  pages  of  Windelband  and 
Lotze  designs  of  a  ceremonial  gown  of  complete 
black  to  be  executed  by  Fraulein  Schiitzen- 
bogen  in  the  Ameisenstrasse,  and  to  be  worn 
by  Fraulein  Waste  at  nine  o'clock  on  a  spring 
morning,  on  the  great  day. 

Do  you  know,  as  the  great  day  approaches, 
and  this  cramming  process  thickens,  and  I 
stuff  myself  with  thousands  of  uninteresting 
fadls  simply  for  the  purpose  of  expelling  them 
showily  but  definitely  on  that  great  day,  I 
begin  to  ask  myself  why  in  the  world  I  am  doing 
it,  and  I  now  remember  that  you  asked  me  that 

056:1 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

question  last  spring,  when  I  brushed  it  aside 
as  an  irrelevant  sort  of  query. 

I  suppose  it  seemed  irrelevant  then  because 
I  failed  to  realize  what  a  lot  of  time  got  wasted 
in  cramming,  thinking  that  examination  would 
mean  the  giving  forth  of  what  one  actually 
knew  among  the  many  things  one  wanted  to 
know.  Now  I  see  that  rather  it  is  going  to  be 
an  exhibition  of  the  things  the  authorities  wish 
me  to  be  acquainted  with,  most  of  which  I  have 
habitually  snubbed  in  passing,  and  with  which 
I  must  therefore  form  a  horrid  false  legal  sort 
of  intimacy  for  the  purpose  of  display,  intend- 
ing privately  to  sever  this  ostensible  connection 
immediately  after. 

But  aside  from  the  misconception  of  the 
nature  of  the  examination,  there  were  plenty 
of  reasons  why  I  wanted  it.  I  wanted  the 
excitement  of  the  enterprise,  I  think,  and  I 
wanted  the  enterprise  in  a  foreign  setting  be- 
cause it  gives  to  it  the  flavour  of  an  intellectual 
adventure.  And  I  wanted  it  also  because  I 
feel  that  by  doing  the  conventional  thing  one 
directs  attention  away  from  oneself,  and  re- 
mains freer,  more  independent,  more  private. 
And  I  also  wanted  it,  because  I  held  a  hazy 
theory  that  being  a  woman,  and  one  of  the  first 


PHILOSOPHY 


to  study  philosophy  in  "foreign  parts"  it 
might  somehow  redound  to  the  benefit  of  the 
feminist  cause  if  I  did  the  act  in  the  regular 
respectable  way.  And  then,  besides,  and  per- 
haps chiefly,  I  haven't  any  sense  of  time  any- 
way, and  it's  correspondingly  hard  for  me  to 
know  when  I'm  wasting  it.  It  may  be  one  of 
your  friendly  duties  to  serve  as  my  time-piece, 
Taddeo  dear;  an  impressive  one,  with  cock- 
crows and  a  simple  melody,  —  and  a  figure  of 
death  with  a  scythe,  to  warn,  to  encourage  and 
to  impress  me. 

So  I  did  it,  or  rather  I'm  going  to  do  it  in  a 
short  time.  I  shan't  tell  you  the  exact  moment 
because  you  might  elect  to  go  through  it  with 
me  in  imagination,  you  dear,  and  that  would 
be  an  unnecessary  trial  for  you  and  quite  useless 
to  me.  Before  it  happens,  however,  I  have  to 
pay  calls  in  white  gloves  on  all  the  gentlemen 
involved,  for  which  I  see  no  earthly  reason, 
wherefore  it  must  be  a  tradition. 

Well,  living  is  complex  and  exciting  and 
strenuous  and  sweet  and  it's  wonderful  just 
to  be  doing  it.  And  aside  from  the  pretences  of 
this  cramming,  I  find,  on  looking  backward  and 
inward,  that  I  have  indeed  been  monstrously 
acquisitive  and  that  I  am  really  beginning  to 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

possess  things.  And,  Taddeo,  this  discovery 
has  brought  a  lot  of  others  in  its  train,  which 
seem  to  me  to  clear  up  so  much  that  has  been 
puzzling  me  and  withstanding  my  efforts  at 
comprehension,  that  I  think  it  most  important 
for  you  to  share  them.  Thus,  I  have  discovered 
that  knowledge  is  a  possessive  state,  a  mere 
spiritual  counterpart  of  material  wealth.  And 
that,  although  there  is  exhilaration  in  the  ex- 
ercise of  the  will  for  power  in  both  the  material 
and  spiritual  pursuit,  it  is  not,  as  Nietzsche 
claimed  for  it,  a  "vornehm,"  an  aristocratic 
attitude  or  occupation  characterizing  the  man 
of  distinction.  For  the  kernel  of  power  is 
possession,  and  possession  is  control  over  the 
"other."  Nietzsche  indeed  seeks  to  include 
hardness  toward  self  in  his  will  for  power,  but 
it  is  nevertheless  difficult  to  see  what  function 
self-control  can  exercise  in  an  organism  moved 
simply  and  consistently  by  a  will  for  power  over 
all  it  can  lay  hands  on. 

The  ideal  of  science  —  possession  and  con- 
trol of  our  world  —  I  believe  to  be  ennobled 
by  the  use  it  is  put  to,  and  greed  for  power  to 
be  vulgar  no  matter  what  sphere  it  attacks. 
For,  although  one  speaks  of  knowledge  for  its 
own  sake,  and  although  one  means  something 


PHILOSOPHY 


thereby,  namely  that  knowledge  flourishes 
most  abundantly  when  the  mind  that  cultivates 
it  concentrates  upon  itself  and  not  upon  its 
uses,  —  one  cannot  mean  that  apart  from  these 
uses  knowledge  is  a  noble  ideal.  Indeed  if  it 
were  possessed  for  the  joy  of  possession  alone 
and  hoarded  as  a  miser's  money  is  hoarded,  its 
owner  would  be  as  vulgar  in  spirit  as  the  miser, 
would  he  not?  Is  it  not  in  fact  true,  that  the 
pursuit  and  possession  and  control  called 
knowledge  becomes  "noble"  only  in  practical 
use  toward  material  and  social  ends,  or  in 
spiritual  use  toward  the  enlargement  of  per- 
sonality, and  that  it  then  is  noble  because, 
instead  of  being  "held,"  it  is  "shared,"  and 
that  means,  injected  into  conditions  and  re- 
lations that  point  and  flow  outward  toward 
"others." 

And  here  I  have  made  the  most  illumi- 
nating discovery.  I  have  divined  —  gropingly 
sensed  —  another  attitude  of  the  spirit  toward 
the  world  as  the  noble  one!  It  is  loosely  con- 
tained, or  perhaps  only  vaguely  suggested,  in 
what  the  verb  "to  be"  implies  as  contrasted 
with  the  verb  "to  have."  I  believe  that  the 
aristocratic  nature  is  actuated  by  an  impulse  or 
longing  or  passion,  or  call  it  what  you  will,  to 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 


merge  in  feeling  and  in  thought  with  the 
"other,"  to  become  absorbed;  to  "become" 
that  other.  And  this  implies  desire  for  and 
acceptance  of  equality  to  the  very  limit  of  indi- 
viduality: to  identity. 

To  ask  nothing  of  anything  or  anyone  save 
the  opportunity  of  uniting  yourself  with  itself, 
as  in  the  contemplation  of  beauty,  or  the  en- 
joyment of  art,  as  in  the  love  of  nature  and  of 
humanity,  and  as,  most  perfectly,  in  the  mutual 
love  of  man  and  woman,  —  does  it  not  seem  to 
you  that  herein  one  is  fulfilling  one's  individual 
destiny  in  a  manner  consistent  with  the  ideal 
of  human  dignity  and  equality? 

And  the  connection  between  being  and  own- 
ing is  very  simply  this,  I  think,  that  we  should 
apply  what  we  "have"  of  knowledge  to  "be- 
coming" the  manifold  being  we  wish  to  be  in 
moments  of  vision.  And  our  larger  personali- 
ties are  but  steps  to  the  final  ideal  of  unreserved 
fusion,  when  giving  and  taking,  sacrifice  and 
possession  cease  to  have  meaning. 

Or  do  you  think  that  this  is  a  purely 
feminine  attitude?  It  seems  truly  to  be 
mine. 

Your 
HENRIE 


PHILOSOPHY 


I  am  beginning  to  feel  so  excited,  so  excited! 
And  back  of  it  there  is  another  layer  of  feeling 
I  keep  pushing  back  all  the  time  without  look- 
ing at  it,  but  I  think  it  is  pure  happiness!  Oh 
Taddeo,  Taddeo,  Taddeo! 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 


DEAR  TADDEO, 

From  my  diary: 

"Examination  started  at  nine  o'clock.  Rick- 
ert,  Schulze-Gaevernitz,  Linke  and  Dekan 
Gotze  were  present,  and  my  child  in  Roschen's 
swaddling  clothes  was  lying  on  the  table. 

All  bow  stiffly.  I  am  asked  to  be  seated. 
Rickert  begins  to  question  me;  asks  questions 
that  require  epic  answers,  for  instance:  trace 
development  of  the  dualism  of  mind  and  mat- 
ter throughout  the  history  of  philosophy.  Very 
impatient,  takes  words  out  of  my  mouth,  if 
they  do  not  flow  torrentially,  which  they  do 
not,  as  I  must  consider  both  the  thought  and 
the  German.  The  hour  passes  in  fifteen  minutes. 
Fair  and  quite  comprehensive  examination. 

Then  Schulze-G.  Very  mean;  not  a  single 
question  touches  on  any  of  his  courses  or  Fuchs' 
or  their  books;  limits  himself  to  currency  and 
finance,  in  which  I  am  poorly  versed  and 
wouldn't  be  versed  at  all,  were  it  not  for  Herr 
Weiss.  Indignation  helped  to  clog  my  meagre 
output  of  information.  The  half  hour  passes 


PHILOSOPHY 


in  five  minutes.  .  .  .  Then  Linke.  Amiable 
and  considerate;  easy  examination.  The  half 
hour  passes  in  half  an  hour. 

I  then  am  requested  to  leave  the  room.  I 
promenade  in  the  hall  suspended  in  a  temporal 
vacuum  in  which  nothing  of  course  could  take 
place,  not  even  a  thought.  — 

Recalled  to  time  and  the  flux  of  events,  I 
find  the  four  powers  standing  in  a  formidable 
group,  staring  at  me.  The  Dean  announces 
that  I  have  been  promoted  to  "Doctor  Philo- 
sophiae,  magna  cum  laude,"  thereupon  shakes 
hands  with  me,  saying  pleasantly:  "Ich  gratu- 
liere,  Fraulein  Doktor";  so  does  Rickert,  so 
does  Schulze-G.,  so  does  Linke;  —  and  I  am 
discharged. 

I  walked  home  and  my  mind  produced 
nothing  more  than  memories  of  questions  and 
outlines  of  much  better  answers  than  I  made, 
but  around  these  sharp  thoughts  there  lay  a 
fringe  of  content,  which,  when  struck  by  atten- 
tion, sounded  a  note  something  like  this:  It's 
all  over  and  successfully  finished. 

When  I  reached  this  room  I  changed  my  black 
dress  to  a  light  one  (to  complete  the  episode,  I 
fancy)  and  sat  down  to  this  book  and  here  I  am 
seated  and  I've  written  this  and  it's  over.  Finis." 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 


D 


EAR  TADDEO, 

That  was  an  hour  ago,  and  then  I  threw  down 
my  pen,  and  flung  myself  on  the  couch  and  wept. 
I  think  I've  been  weeping  ever  since.  And  the 
tears,  —  those  of  blessed  relief  that  the  strain 
is  over,  those  of  satisfaction  that  it  has  resulted 
in  success,  those  of  fatigue,  and  those  of  pain 
because  you  are  not  here,  —  the  tears  drained 
from  my  soul  all  its  worrying  complexities  and 
left  it  shining  in  simplicity,  so  that  no  one,  not 
you,  nor  I,  could  by  any  possibility  discover 
anything  else  in  it  but  only  my  love  for  you, 
Taddeo. 

That  you  should  not  be  here  to  receive  it, 
that  I  must  gather  it  up  in  poor  words  to  send 
to  you,  and  that  you  in  turn  must  extract  it 
from  these  words  before  you  take  possession, 
that  in  this  unnatural  process  some  of  it  may 
leak  away  to  waste,  —  that  you  should  not  be 
here  where  I  am,  this  is  my  chief  concern ! 

How  I  shall  ever  arrive  at  telling  you  how  it 
feels  to  love  you,  I  don't  know!  Perhaps  if  I 
try  to  tell  you  how  it  felt  not  to  love.  —  Not 


PHILOSOPHY 


to  love  is  exadlly  like  being  shut  up  in  a  trans- 
parent shell;  —  one  sees,  one  hears,  one  under- 
stands, but  one  touches  nothing  living.  All  is 
there,  outside  and  beyond,  beauty  and  pain  and 
excitement,  but  nothing  is  there  for  you,  lonely 
stranger  in  a  baffling  world,  nothing  but  the 
longing  to  grasp  it  all. 

And  then  the  shell  crumbles,  and  all  that  is 
around  you  begins  to  live  in  you.  You  feel 
the  air  and  the  dead  things  in  nature,  you  thrill 
to  beauty  and  respond  to  pain  and  all  that  you 
suffer  is  an  excitement  and  an  incitement  to 
give  yourself  to  the  thing  you  love.  To  live 
alone  even  in  thought,  to  repress  the  desire  to 
serve,  to  spend,  to  become  what  you  touch,  is 
no  longer  possible,  it  is  intolerable,  it  is  death. 

And  to  be  loved  in  return,  as  you  love  me, 
is  to  be  accepted  and  suddenly  to  become  by 
spontaneous  generation,  as  it  were,  what 
otherwise  entails  slow  and  painful  growth:  a 
new,  a  larger,  a  nobler  individual.  .  .  . 

I  know  now  why  power  to  visualize  the 
invisible  and  to  feel  the  touch  of  the  absent 
has  been  given  to  me;  I  know  why  I  who  lack 
expression  possess  imagination.  For  I  am 
putting  my  arms  around  you,  and  I  feel  the 
stuff  of  your  coat  on  the  palm  of  my  hand,  and 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

the  texture  of  your  skin  and  the  ebb  and  flow 
of  your  blood  on  my  cheeks,  and  the  lashes  of 
your  eyes  against  mine,  and  your  breath  on 
me  and  your  lips  and  mine  united,  and  I  thrill 
to  these  mere  thoughts  of  you  just  as  if  they 
were  the  physical  sensations  they  shadow  and 
foreshadow.  And  when  I  consider  that  your 
arms  too  will  embrace  me  and  that  your  lips 
will  respond  to  mine  and  that  you  will  for  the 
first  time  be  Taddeo  loved  by  me,  it  excites 
me  beyond  anything  I  ever  imagined!  For  I 
am  used  to  myself  silently  loved  by  you,  and 
I  am  now  feeling  myself  loving  you,  but  what 
you  will  be  when  loved  by  me,  my  Taddeo,  my 
wonderful  new  real  lover,  I  shall  know  only 
in  the  full  reality  of  experience. 

You  are  not  here  to  shut  out  all  but  the 
present,  and  I  am  looking  into  our  future.  I 
think  we  shall  truly  live  together;  I  think  of 
ourselves  as  completely  one,  somehow,  using 
one  another's  senses  and  emotions,  faculties 
and  talents  and  behaving  in  some  extraordinary 
way  quite  differently  than  we  did  as  separate 
individuals,  as  two  chemicals  behave  differently 
when  fused  into  one  substance. 

Yes,  my  Taddeo,  I  am  not  going  to  take 
possession  of  you,  I  am  going  to  attempt  to 


PHILOSOPHY 


be  you,  because  you  are  altogether  beautiful. 
On  the  way  to  you  I  shall  be  the  air  that  touches 
a  refreshing  sparkling  fountain  and  you  will 
be  that  fountain;  I  shall  be  a  butterfly  that 
blissfully  perishes  in  the  heart  of  a  honey- 
laden  flower  and  you  will  be  that  flower;  I 
shall  be  a  greedy  girl  whose  lover  concentrates 
the  wealth  of  the  world  into  an  embrace,  and 
you  will  be  that  generous  lover.  For  you  can 
deny  me  nothing,  who  am  ready  to  give  you 
all  I  can  ever  become.  .  .  .  Together  we  will 
listen  to  the  voices  of  the  world  and  through 
our  love  its  language  will  become  plain  to  us 
and  its  music  will  didlate  the  rhythm  of  our 
quickened  life.  And  will  not  my  dark  stupidi- 
ties be  dissipated  by  the  light  of  our  new  vision 
and  all  mystery  be  dissolved  in  the  greater 
mystery  of  our  love  and  union  ?  I  don't  know, 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  only  miracles  such  as 
these  can  flow  from  the  miracle  that  I  love 
you  more  than  myself  and  wish  to  be  so  close 
to  you  that  I  shall  be  one  with  you  at  the 
price  of  self-immolation. 

And  nevertheless,  and  wonderfully,  although 
my  love  for  you  permeates  me,  it  does  not 
crush  anything  else  but  only  flavours  all  that 
takes  place  in  my  spirit.  Rather  in  its  slow 

£268;) 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

growth  it  seems  to  have  established  relations 
with  every  faculty  and  gift  I  may  have  and 
with  all  the  ideas  I  hold.  So  that  not  only  am 
7  that  love  of  you,  but  even  parts  of  me  are 
it;  —  it  comes  along  with  all  I  do,  think  and 
feel,  and  it  comes  not  in  the  dim  background  as 
a  penumbra,  but  clearly,  brightly,  importunately. 
It  demands,  in  fact,  to  be  looked  at  and  con- 
sidered as  well  as  wondered  at  and  enjoyed;  and 
what  I  have  seen  I  will  try  to  record  for  you. 

You  will  smile  at  me,  Taddeo,  —  well,  smile 
while  you  may,  for  when  you  see  me  and  have 
me,  you  will  not  smile  your  brother  smile,  not 
for  a  little  while,  not  until  you  grow  accustomed 
to  me,  —  for  I  must  tell  you  that  one  thing  I 
have  seen  is  the  certainty  that  I  would  not 
love  you  as  I  do,  if  I  had  not  studied  philosophy! 
No,  and  for  many  reasons. 

In  the  first  place  you  would  not  have  found 
so  many  budding  ideas  to  fasten  yourself  to, 
for  I  have  thought  you  into  my  heart,  no  matter 
what  you  may  think  about  it.  Indeed,  I'm  not 
sure  that  you  did  not  arrive  in  my  life  at  the 
psychological  moment,  when  you  reaped  the 
harvest  philosophy  had  sown.  For  in  retro- 
spect I  seem  to  understand  that  had  I  not 
followed  the  promptings  of  my  philosophy- 

i:  269:1 


PHILOSOPHY 


desiring  soul,  had  I  not  kept  carefully  asunder 
intellectual  speculation  and  emotional  appraise- 
ments, most  probably  the  two  would  have 
merged  and  produced  some  form  of  religious 
or  philosophical  mysticism,  and  all  my  out- 
going potencies  of  intuition  and  sympathy 
would  have  been  sucked  up  by  objects  incapable 
of  response  and  incapable  of  fecundating  the 
spirit,  and  there  would  have  been  nothing 
greater  for  you  than  for  the  sun  and  stars  and 
winds  and  flowers  and  brothers  and  sisters. 
For  at  one  time  I  somehow  passionately  desired 
union  with  all  of  these,  some  mystic  coalescence 
in  which  I  should  cease  to  have  limits  and  should 
enter  completely  into  their  beings  in  order 
through  them  to  grasp  reality.  How  I  expected 
to  grasp  reality  after  having  lost  self-conscious- 
ness I  do  not  know,  yet  the  desire  was  painfully 
profound. 

But  I  clung  to  my  rationalistic  ideas,  con- 
ceiving philosophy  as  possessive  thought  and 
I  struggled  on  toward  her,  holding  in  check  my 
outgoing  sympathies.  And  I  have  my  reward. 
It  is  you,  you  wonderfully  wise,  pure,  sweet 
and  harmonious  being  who  love  me,  and  in  you 
all  my  own  diffused  impulses  toward  love  and 
absorption  have  concentrated. 
[2703 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL    FRAGMENT 

So  I  owe  it  to  her,  philosophy,  that  I  can 
love  you  completely. 

And  I  certainly  owe  it  to  her  that  I  do  love 
you  completely,  for  I  owe  my  personality  to 
her.  Indeed  I  have  come  to  think  of  her  as 
more  than  a  friend  who  bestowed  eyes  on  my 
blindly  striving  and  suffering  and  ceaselessly 
agitated  spirit;  I  compare  her  service,  finding 
no  formulation  for  it,  to  that  of  the  inexplicable 
force  that  manifests  itself  as  consciousness. 
Yes,  I  believe  that  philosophy  has  given  to  my 
soul  consciousness  of  self,  has  endowed  it  with 
power  to  feel  itself  as  a  related  whole,  to 
"flairer"  its  own  trend,  and  to  employ  all  the 
facts  and  forces  intelligence  can  command  for 
the  purpose  of  shaping  this  soul  into  a  person- 
ality. .  .  .  And  it  is  only  since  I  feel  myself  a 
unified  and  self-directed  whole  that  I  have 
completely  loved  you;  that  I  have  responded 
without  hesitation  to  you;  that  something  in  me 
answers  with  certainty  to  your  harmony  and 
your  insight  and  your  sweetness  and  all  your 
thousand  beauties  I  burn  to  share.  .  .  . 

But  if  I  owe  to  her  all  these  treasures,  your 
love  of  me  and  my  love  of  you  and  the  libera- 
tion from  spending  myself  in  thwarted  desire;  — 
to  what  do  I  owe  the  knowledge  of  the  meaning 


PHILOSOPHY 


of  life  that  I  suddenly  seem  to  possess?  Is  it 
to  our  love  alone,  or  indirectly  to  philosophy  as 
well,  who,  when  directly  interrogated,  kept 
silent?  .  .  .  Because  I  now  know  that  what 
I  asked  of  the  accumulated  wisdom  of  the  ages, 
and  of  the  latest  discoveries  of  the  exact  science 
of  our  day,  —  and  asked  in  vain,  —  the  reve- 
lation, namely,  of  an  end  and  aim  for  life  which 
should  contain  the  finality  that  reason  demands 
of  ultimate  purpose,  as  well  as  the  condition 
for  continuance  and  growth  that  life  itself 
demands,  —  I  have  now  found  in  the  state  of 
love.  I  now  know,  my  Taddeo,  that  the  desire 
for  union,  of  which  our  love  is  the  most  perfect 
type  since  it  is  the  life-furthering  and  life- 
enriching  type,  is  the  final  purpose  of  living. 
I  think  clearly  to  perceive  that  the  individual 
soul  can  have  no  other  ideal  which  shall  con- 
tain both  consummation  and  growth  than  that 
of  becoming  ever  larger,  more  subtle,  and  more 
comprehensive  of  all  that  brother  souls  have 
breathed  into  our  common  world,  —  our  so 
vast  and  intricate  and  still  so  diverging  com- 
mon world.  And  I  can't  conceive  the  things 
we  do  and  have  done  and  hope  to  do,  and  call 
civilization,  as  anything  other  in  meaning  than 
approaches  of  spirit  to  spirit.  I  no  longer  get 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL     FRAGMENT 

any  value-feeling  from  our  greatest  achieve- 
ments, science,  social  order  and  art,  as  ends  in 
themselves;  I  respect  them  simply  as  means 
to  the  end  of  educating  men  to  comprehend 
and  through  comprehension  to  love  their  fellow- 
men.  For  what  other  reason,  half  so  satisfying, 
can  we  demand  all  that  democracy  implies, 
freedom  from  poverty,  opportunity  for  educa- 
tion and  leisure  for  the  cultivation  and  enjoy- 
ment of  art?  For  "happiness"  is  an  envelope 
of  a  word,  rather  than  a  word;  it  contains  any- 
thing one  pleases  to  wrap  into  it  and  no  one 
can  measure,  test,  or  logically  dispute  the  con- 
tents, for  they  are  individual  and  subjective. 
But  power  to  love  and  to  merge  in  fruitful 
understanding  with  the  manifestation  of  spirit- 
ual life  about  us  is  a  definite,  determinable 
thing.  And  therefore  all  forms  of  our  culture 
can  be  considered  in  relation  to  this  final  end, 
and  we  can  know  whether  they  help  man  to 
approach  his  brother  in  sympathy,  or  set  up 
barriers  that  permit  the  desire  for  possession 
and  exploitation  to  arise. 

You  and  I,  Taddeo,  shall  work  for  all  that 
furthers  understanding  and  spiritual  union, 
shall  we  not,  with  the  aid  of  what  philosophy 
will  continue  to  teach  us,  and  with  our  own 


PHILOSOPHY 


complete  love  as  an  example  and  a  guide  in 
our  striving  to  grasp  in  sympathy  all  that  is 
human.  And  when  we  love  and  long  for  the 
beauty  of  the  sun  and  stars  and  the  song  of  the 
bird  and  the  perfume  of  the  flower,  it  will  be 
from  an  overflow  of  our  love  for  the  living  and 
fecund,  and  not  because  we  are  too  poor  or  too 
fastidious  or  too  afraid  to  approach  our  own 
kind,  preferring  to  waste  in  sterile  longing  or  in 
unconscious  and  deathlike  absorption  the  in- 
stinct for  life  which  is  love. 

Since  I  have  let  my  love  for  you  shine  out 
and  spread  its  glow  through  and  about  me,  all 
sorts  of  things  have  already  happened  to  me. 
I  seem  to  have  attracted  multitudes  that  never 
before  dwelt  with  me.  Words  and  phrases 
and  poems,  melodies,  pictures,  scenes  and 
visions  have  come  from  the  ends  of  the  earth 
and  from  all  the  years  and  places  of  my  life 
crowding  into  my  memory.  And  they  all 
celebrate  you  and  they  all  seem  to  strive  toward 
you  in  dumb  yearning  to  be  seen  and  heard 
and  shared  by  you.  So  hasten,  hasten  to  me, 
my  Taddeo,  my  lover,  my  friend,  my  brother. 

Your 
HENRIE 

1:2743 


,(••••••1 


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30193< 


JUN   5 


nri  ?  8  1996 


U.  C.  BERKELEY 


LD  21-100m-7,'39(402s 


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